What If Emma
by yimmy-kins
Summary: [Femslash EmmaVarious] In the vein of ye ol' "What If..." Marvel series. Each standalone chapter deals with something random, something Emma, and some other woman.
1. What If Emma Married Betsy?

Disclaimer: I have no claim in Marvel. I'm just messing with their already messed up worlds.

Notes: This is sort of like a dumping ground for all my half-baked Emma centric ideas that aren't good enough to be standalone stories. I have this mildly structured like the classic "What If..." series which ran some far out scenarios. All the chapters are self-contained Emma femslash fics spanning all genres. This series will be updated irregularly since it's dependent upon ideas as they come.

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_**What If Emma...**_

by Yimmy

Chapter 1: _What If Emma Married Betsy?

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_

"Where's my toofbwush?"

Emma glanced up from her newspaper and shrugged. "In the bathroom?"

"It's not dere."

"Use another one, pumpkin. This isn't rocket science."

"But... but..."

"But what?"

Tears threatened to stream from those cute eyes. "Want my SpongeBob and Patrick toofbwush!"

Emma sighed. "Open a new one then. Second drawer from the bottom, pumpkin."

Little feet pattered away leaving the blonde to sip her coffee and enjoy the silence of the tranquil morning. Well, that is before slightly bigger feet pounded down the stairs at an unkosher clip.

She didn't even take her eyes away from the paper this time. "No running in the house, young lady."

The steps slowed but they still pounded, displeased.

"Sulk all you want," Emma called out, "but you are not getting back your television privileges. Understood?"

A faint "Whatever" made it to the kitchen, but the owner of the voice didn't show up. Better not show up at the breakfast table like that or she would've gotten a tongue lashing severe enough to make a middle-age man cry. Teen rebellion--Emma knew it well, but so early and so intensely? Just half a year ago the young lady flew on the wings of angel, but today, she carried herself like the devil after twenty cups of espresso.

Of course, things changed in six months.

Emma looked at the table: four seats, three plates set. Eggs benedict sat piping hot. Cereal and yogurt made their home in the middle, but none of that sugary stuff or preservative laden garbage. The girls only had the best. Some called them spoiled. Others called them picky. Emma called those people envious.

Little feet pattered back into the kitchen. The girl flashed her toothiest smile and gestured wildly at her few pearly whites. "See? See? All clean!"

Folding the paper, Emma scooped the growing bundle of joy into her arms and plopped her down in the booster chair. "You did good, pumpkin. Finish breakfast and we can go to school."

"Wha 'bout sis?"

Emma's expression darkened. "She's old enough to walk on her own."

With long, brown hair, and blue eyes, the cute little thing was the splitting image of a young Emma. She inherited Emma's perception too, noticing to keep quiet when her mama got that far away look.

She didn't like that look. Mama had it on way too much nowadays, and when she did, she didn't talk, didn't smile, and said means things about people. She didn't like that look one bit, but at least afterwards, Mama always tried to be extra nice to make up for being mean.

In record time, the little girl finished her meal. Mama ruffled her hair, stood, grabbed a bag lunch from the counter, and helped her down. The little girl shrugged on her SpongeBob backpack and walked out the door with Mama.

"Grace!" Emma called out as she left, "Don't be late for school!"

Another soft "Whatever" echoed from somewhere in the cavernous house.

Instead of getting angry, Emma held her younger daughter's hand and made the short journey over to the Xavier Institute. For years this scenic setting exuded an aura of homeliness, but today, the leaves drooped a little too much, the clouds rolled in too often, and the grass didn't seem as green.

Emma entertained ideas of moving away, but the girls kept her here. Too many friends, too much familiarity--Westchester was the only home they knew, and Emma couldn't take that away from them. What they needed was stability, not a cross-country journey into a random nowhere.

Maybe one day the luster would return, but Emma didn't get her hopes up.

The front gates of the school stood opened to admit its many students. Emma bent down and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

"Be good, Elisabeth."

"Yes, Mama."

"I'll see you this afternoon."

They hugged and separated, Elisabeth skittering to her classes and Emma watching her skitter. When her daughter disappeared into the depths of the building, Emma walked through the gates herself. Normally, parents weren't allowed on school grounds while class was in session, but Emma considered herself an exception.

Away from the classrooms and to the actual mansion she ambled. Harried teachers--most she didn't recognize--ran past her. Some gave her a questioning stare, but the way she held herself prevented their protests.

Kitty came down the hall, but all she shared with Emma was a polite nod--same with Scott and X'ian. Hank gave more of a greeting, embracing her and squeezing her shoulders. Paige saw the exchange and pitched in a strained "Hope ya feelin' better Ms. Frost.".

No more encounters crept up, and that was fine by Emma. She didn't come here to chat up the school. Around the corridors, through the backdoor, out into the field, into the forest, and to the clearing went Emma.

A cliff. The recently risen sun. Water in front and trees in back. One single stone stuck up from the ground.

Grace picked it out. Emma wrote the words. Logan shaped and engraved it with his claws. Brian hauled it up here. Kurt blessed it. It was a real team effort.

Emma kneeled. She brushed her lips against the top of the stone.

"Elisabeth Braddock. Friend. Mentor. Sister. Parent. Wife. Only the words of love kept alive are worthy of not being wasted. We love you. We miss you."

Simple. Tasteful. Beautiful.

Never failed to coax tears from Emma's eyes.

They married over ten years ago, after Xavier left the school to pursue his own goals in the new Genosha. The life of an X-Man slowed. Other people rose to take on supervillains while the school itself blossomed into a huge educational juggernaut. Students ranged from abandoned infants to forty year olds. Couldn't deal with Black Tom Cassidy or the Hellfire Club anymore, had to grade papers, garner funding, and hammer out course requirements.

Emma helmed the administrative aspects of the school; Betsy became a teacher. After working with so many children on a regular basis, they wanted to have some of their own. Betsy asked Brian for a... donation in a vial, and Emma carried their first child to term: Grace Beatrice Frost. Emma dealt with the pregnancy, so it only seemed fair she name the daughter. Meggan was disturbingly happy at "finally seeing the fruits of Brian's loins."

Emma and Betsy raised Grace as well as they could. The bouncing baby became everyone's little girl, and she lacked nothing. She grew up humble but confident, intelligent but not arrogant. Her tall, lean frame and fiery passion made her a splitting image of Betsy. Grace was such a heavenly experience that they wanted another child. After much cajoling, Brian agreed again, only because Grace hit him with her best puppy dog eyes and said, "I wanna l'il sis."

So came Elisabeth Braddock Frost: this time, Brian and Betsy both were adamant about the Braddock part. "Frosty's clone" Jubilee liked to joke. From birth to preschool, Elisabeth got what she wanted whenever she wanted. SpongeBob toofbwush. Rated R movies. Candy before bed. Whether through arm twisting or outright charm, the little girl had the world wrapped around her tiny little finger.

Betsy. Emma. Grace. Elisabeth. They were happy. But their happiness ended so fast.

Six months ago. Manhattan. Betsy and Emma left the girls with Jean and Scott and went out on a much deserved date. They were so wrapped up in each other they didn't sense him following them. Him: Shinobi Shaw, Sebastian Shaw's son. His power: intangibility. His problem: hated Emma for being such a powerful member of the Hellfire Club and had "unfinished business" with Betsy stemming from a time when she plunged her psychic knife into him.

He stalked them well--neither noticed his approach. In the middle of Times Square, he tried to kill them both by turning intangible and removing needed body parts. Responding to a good-natured barb, Betsy playfully bumped Emma off the sidewalk. The blonde's mock indignation turned into terror, but before she could do anything, the man ripped her wife's still beating heart out from behind.

Emma fried the coward's brain a second too late.

Shinobi Shaw died that night, but so did Betsy. She had an impish smile on her empty face. Emma held the cooling body close to her and wouldn't let go, not when the paramedics came, not when Warren flew in from his Manhattan office, not when Scott arrived from the mansion with her children. Her sparkling white outfit stained with Betsy's blood.

They didn't get to say goodbye.

There weren't any last words.

Betsy didn't even know what happened.

Emma took the Shaw estate for all it was worth. With Tessa's help, she annihilated the Hellfire Club. Neither act brought Betsy back; neither act made her feel better.

Grace, the first born, Betsy's favored daughter, withdrew into herself. The girl who did no wrong did nothing but wrong. Her grades suffered. She didn't want to get up in the morning. She lashed out against everyone. She went to school and came straight home. Some nights, Emma caught her daughter clutching Betsy's photo and bawling like a newborn.

Emma couldn't blame her.

Elisabeth, young Elisabeth, she knew something was wrong. Her big sis acted funny. Her mama acted funny. She acted normal to balance the funniness, but it didn't help.

Emma didn't know what to say to her.

Emma... Emma herself quit the school. Life went on. Sometimes, she wished Shinobi had ripped out her heart instead so she wouldn't have to deal with everything. Then she thought of Betsy, sweet Betsy who loved her daughters, sweet Betsy who would've wanted the girls to live life to the fullest.

So, Emma got up everyday and lived so her daughters could live.

"It's so hard," she cried, resting her head against the gravestone, "It's so hard..."

Hours passed. The tears dried. The sun shined bright overhead. Emma hated feeling so needy, but she was. A cool breeze played with her long hair while birds soared high above. Dying here sounded like a good idea. Green grass. Nice day. Betsy. All Emma ever needed, all here on this forsaken cliff.

The school bell for the elementary classes rang. Emma brushed the grass off and kissed the headstone again. She headed back into the forest only to run into a cigar smoking Logan leaning against a tree. Looked like he'd been there for a long time.

"This ain't healthy, Frost."

"No," she admitted, "but do you have any better ideas?"

"Get outta here. Find somewhere to chase away the worry and hurtin'."

"I can't do that to the girls."

He snorted. "Leave the girls here. Every flamin' person here treat 'em like their own flesh n' blood anyway. They'll be fine."

"They need me, Logan, especially with Betsy gone. I wouldn't be able to ever think of her again if I didn't take care of our daughters."

The cigar fell to the ground and splintered apart under his boot. "If it's one thing I know, I know Betts wouldn't mind. The woman would've broken down if she saw you today, all wailin' over her grave like a banshee. Ya need peace, n' lemme say that this joint ain't the most peaceful of places. You can't take care o' your daughters if you can't take care o' yourself."

Tempting, but "No."

"Fair enough," he grunted, "I ain't the kinda man to argue with a mother." He walked in the direction of Betsy's grave. "Just think about it, ok?"

Grace. Elisabeth. "No," Emma repeated. "They're our daughters and I won't leave them behind, not to the X-Men, not to Brian, not to anybody."

"The birds gotta leave the nest some time, Frost."

"Not now."

Emma reemerged into the world, her back straightening, her eyes clearing up. Two hundred feet behind her was the only place she showed her pain. Anywhere else, too much depended on her. She'd bore the weight of the world on her shoulders before, but none of her experiences prepared her for this burden, the burden of children and continuing on after the one she loved had left.

It's so hard, perhaps too hard, but Emma Grace Frost never gave up.

"That's a proud woman you hitched," muttered Logan when he reached Betsy.

In a perfect world, true love would conquer all, the sheen of ice around Emma's heart would melt, and Betsy would throw the lid off her coffin and surprise everyone by coming back to life. In a perfect world, the children would grow up with two loving parents, a host of boisterous uncles and aunts, and be the light of future generations.

In the real world, Emma would carry on, perhaps find someone else, perhaps not. Life would go on, children would grow up, and the gravestone here would wither away, sooner or later uncleaned and unkept. Betsy's body would lay here, but her memory would be buried in the memories of others, there to live on till the end of their days.

In this world, grief stood still. Emma languished. The children hurt. The X-Men came and went, the group the same but the individuals different. Memories scattered to the winds, removed by other pressing concerns. Paid gardeners dispassionately cleaned the gravestone once every month, the words lovingly etched on it meaning nothing to them.

Life began and ended here, out in the corner of nowhere in a place which mattered to few. Logan brushed a speck of dirt from his jeans and tipped his wide-brimmed hat to Betsy's memorial.

"Don't worry 'bout the kids. No matter what, you can count on Frost."

In a perfect world, these words wouldn't be needed.

In the real world, these words wouldn't matter.

In this world, these words needed to be said.

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- The next tale awaits... 


	2. What If Emma Became a High School Teache...

Notes: This is a completely new, self-contined story that has nothing to do with the previous chapter. This is styled in the "What If..." comics, which follows new scenarios in every issue. That being said, there's also sex, violence, and language in this chapter. Ain't it great?

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**_What If Emma..._**

by Yimmy

Chapter 2: _What If Emma Became a High School Teacher?_

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Emma hugged her denim jacket closer. Like any typical New York winter, the sun set hours early and the crazies came out to play when darkness touched the ground. Honest, she didn't mean to stay late at the high school, but the tutoring session went so well she couldn't tell poor Kevin to leave. By the end of the econ marathon, he had the concept of the aggregate market equilibrium down pat, showing once again that if there's one thing Emma Grace Frost didn't do, it was quit on her students. That determination made her the teacher she was, and no one could take that away from her, not her badgering father, not her uppity sisters, and not her indifferent mother. 

A pox on them for looking down on her, saying teaching was a useless waste of her talent. So what if she didn't make millions or frequent midnight soiree's? At least she wasn't sleeping around like Adrienne or taking drugs like dear old mother. They couldn't fathom why she would take her economics degree and hang around children who didn't give a rat's ass about market trends and profit slopes. They couldn't imagine why she'd pull double duty and lecture about Lord Byron and his fellow Romantics.

"The Frost name," her father delighted in saying, "is synonymous with power, pride, and prestige. You, my Emma, exhibit none of those qualities."

How further off base could Daddy be? Few jobs paid a person to brainwash their children. Even fewer came with the ability to influence entire age groups. Only one job had those same pliable, brainwashed youths return to say thank you. Come on, look at the 60's and what schools did to the United States--the entire tye dye industry subsisted on the stubborn, nonsensical nostalgia of a few fanatics and globs of college students. What other institute could influence thought, culture, morals, economy, and perception like a school? Not that Emma was a manipulative person or rebel of a teacher, but she just found the observation interesting, kind of like how she found cream swirling in a White Russian interesting.

Someone had to guide growing adolescents into adulthood or else they'd end up like their ignorant parents, and Emma, being a mutant herself, had some real incentives for keeping the tolerance high.

Mutant? Mutant you say? Yes, mutant, and being so was something the other Frosts would send her into those government "humanitarian" camps over. Knowing full well since birth never to expect affection or sympathy from her parents, Emma kept her powers a secret and chugged through life hoping to make life a better for those of her kind. Becoming an educator was a step in the right direction, more so than succumbing to Daddy's wish for her to slip into some rich man's bed.

With a dream behind her, Emma set off into the world to make it more livable one person at a time. Some called her idealistic, most called her crazy, but Emma Grace Frost knew she'd succeed. A human mind had the ability to start wars, destroy lives, exploit earth, and take advantage of others. Why not use it to heal societal problems and moral debauchery? Seeing as how her own brain operated on a different plane than everyone else's, Emma had a healthy respect for the mind and the good it could do.

Sad that only two people in the world understood her vision to educate tomorrow's generation: one was her brother Christian. Sweet Christian wasn't a mutant, but he was gay, and Daddy to shipped him off to boarding school before disowning him midway through the semester. Seriously, how could parents disown a child? Not like they could pluck their respective DNA out of Christian and unmake him their son. Nature, to the best of Emma's knowledge, didn't work that way; however, society did, so tough beans. Her brother ended up in one of the many San Francisco suburbs, San Palo or San Pablo or something. Became a music teacher by day and a street musician by night, pounding out tunes on his Panasonic keyboard as one third of a trio, his band mates a blind drummer and a fourteen year old saxophonist.

They still talked. In fact, Christian urged Emma to pursue her dream, parents and expectations be damned. Would she be happy sitting behind a desk firing people and watching the stock market fluctuate? No, so time to ditch the drama and follow the heart.

And the other person to understand Emma's vision? Why, her very own Feli-

"Nice night for a walk, ain't it little lady?"

Oh, this was bad. Four intimidating (and some inebriated) men impeded her way on the sidewalk. So absorbed in their own business, the other Manhattan pedestrians didn't even bother looking at the scene. Seemed like someone was actively diverting their attention or...

Emma squinted at the hooded man in the back. Psychic energies radiated from him and engulfed a small radius with the mental suggestion containing apathy. Neat trick, but Emma had better ones.

The burliest of the burly touched her cheek. "Pretty thing," he complimented as he brushed a blonde hair aside, "How's about we get to know each other better?"

How's about we get to know each other better? "How's about we get to know each other better?" Emma scoffed. "Could you say anything more hackneyed?"

Her unconcerned demeanor threw them off for a second. The touchy feely man turned to his friends and asked, "What does hackneyed mean?"

Simpletons. "Overused, unoriginal, and tiresome," answered Emma. She then added a "Dipshit" for good measure.

Rocket scientists these men weren't, but they understood "Dipshit" just fine.

"Big mouth on this one. I like that. Means she'll open up real wide when she sucks our dicks."

Emma's hand darted out and snared a handful of the talkative man's crotch. His eyes bulged as she gave him an innocent grin split seconds before she twisted. Pepper spray appeared in her other hand, and she plastered the hooded mutant in the face. Charm broken, her fellow pedestrians began to notice the scene and react, some running to get out of the way, some flipping out their cell phones, a few upstanding individuals even coming to Emma's aid. The two remaining, silent men--silent because they were drunk--lunged to protect their squirming, pleading friend.

Honest, Emma had them under control. Thanks for the help, but no thanks. Emma Grace Frost feared no one, least of all a band of machismo dripping savages. Those self-defense courses Christian told her to take came in useful, and if she couldn't take them down, she still had her telepathy to fall back on. She couldn't take control of their minds or anything, but simple barked orders like "Stop" or "Trip" were no problem, hence this situation was no problem.

A streak of black and platinum white dropped down in front of Emma. Thugs and helpful New Yorkers alike had no time to react. The streak never stopped moving, clocking the two attackers, sweeping Emma off her feet, and then jumping back onto the New York roofs without so much as a word.

Some said the streak was Spiderman doing his nightly patrols. The ones in the know knew the Black Cat had struck to protect her own.

* * *

Emma Grace Frost wasn't only a mutant, which, as stated before, was an unforgivable sin in her parents' eyes. Emma Grace Frost was also a lesbian, which, if Christian could be used as an example, was Daddy Frost's grounds for war. Add her altruistic pursuits, apparent lack of incredible financial success, and well, if Mommy and Daddy knew an ounce more of what they knew now, they'd suffer heart attacks. Not that Emma minded, but she did have a bi-annual subscription to the "love thy parents" mantra, so she didn't test their overtaxed organs. Yes, love thy parents... said nothing about trusting them or visiting on a regular basis. 

Ahhh, the smell of technicalities in the morning. Emma loved technicalities because they always made life more interesting, like the technicality with her lover. Technically, Emma Grace Frost loved two women: the mild mannered Felicia Hardy and the city heroine Black Cat.

On any given night, the blonde shared a bed with either voluptuous vixen. The world would've called her a slut. The world would've called her unfaithful. The world would've called her sick. The world would've called her a harlot.

The world didn't need to know Felicia Hardy and the Black Cat were one in the same, and tonight, if those determined green eyes were any indication, the Black Cat was staying over.

Rushing wind whipping her hair slowed. The hopping from building to building ceased. The Black Cat gently set Emma back on the ground, or actually, on the roof, the roof of their penthouse loft.

"Did they hurt you?"

Emma almost wanted to laugh, but she knew how seriously Felicia took her safety and shot down the response. "Unscathed," Emma assured, snaking her hands around her lover's trim waist, "You forget I used to teach at a Brooklyn high school."

Pleasing sensations got pushed aside by worry. "You should drive more often. It's safer than going out on your own like that, especially when the sun's down."

"Unless you're chauffeuring, I am not putting myself in forty five minutes of Manhattan traffic. Walking is less stressful."

Frustrated, Felicia groaned and disentangled herself from the blonde. "If you're not going to drive, then call when you're late. I ran all over the city looking for you, and good thing too because those men would've raped you."

"No, they couldn't have," said Emma, folding her arms and glowering, "I'm not made of glass and you know that as well as anyone. I may not be some hot shot crime fighter, but I can hold my own against drunk frat boys."

"Just call me for my sake, ok?"

No fair. Emma could never stand up to those green orbs of persuasion. "Fine," she relented, "I'll remember to call next time."

Without waiting for Felicia's reply, she stormed away and made sure to slam the door leading into their home extra hard. Down the tasteful spirally stairs she trudged. She didn't even bother with her shoes, instead marching all over the immaculate white carpet and heading straight to the large stainless steel fridge.

Emma needed a drink.

A bottle of Smirnoff Ice clanked onto the marble countertop. Twist, pop, gulp, sigh, gulp, repeat previous step. A few minutes later, Felicia descended from the roof, her Black Cat mask dangling off an index finger. Emma polished off her weak liquor and dumped the bottle in the recycling bin. As she blazed to the bedroom, Felicia put a hand on her shoulder.

Her voice dripped with regret. "I'm sorry for going paranoid on you, Emma."

"Yeah, I can understand. I shouldn't get protective when you throw yourself in front of murderers and super villains every night, but when I come home late, it's ok for you to freak out. I get it."

The sarcasm stun enough for Felicia to wince. "I deserved that," she sighed. "It's in my nature to worry about you. I've got enemies all over the place, and every minute I don't know where you are, I get uncomfortable. Does that make me controlling? Yes. Does that make me demanding? Yes. But am I justified? Yes."

Those words all rubbed Emma the wrong way. Brought back memories of childhood, of a domineering father and his host of lackeys he called babysitters. "How long have we been together?"

"Four years, seven months," answered Felicia without hesitation.

"And in all that time, have I ever been threatened by any of these enemies? The Hobgolin has never darkened our doorstep. Venom hasn't shown his face to me. I've seen them on TV; I've seen their wounds on your body. That's it. It's safe to say you don't have to be paranoid."

"Just because it hasn't happened doesn't mean it won't!"

"You can't run my life, Felicia!" The blonde's voice became dangerously quiet and she turned away. "I'm not your belonging. I'm my own person and I won't stand for being a trophy girl, there for you to fuck whenever you're buzzed after a fight."

Anger and hurt consumed the Black Cat, but she commanded herself to will her rash thoughts away. Both she and Emma were fierce, independent women. Any attempts to stifle said independence were met with aforementioned fierceness. Just, sometimes, in the middle of protecting the greater masses, a protective streak popped up. No, Emma wasn't a dainty tart, but after seeing so many die, so many tragic endings, the scared, selfish side of Felicia wanted to keep the blonde under lock and key so no one would ever cause her harm.

"Please Emma, look at me." Her lover didn't turn her head. "If I have to beg on my knees, I will."

Maybe it was the Smirnoff, but Emma felt sadistic today. Normally, she'd never let Felicia stoop so low, but today, the offer sounded too good to pass up. "Well?" she asked, still not moving her head.

Swallowing her pride, Felicia got to her knees; only then did Emma drown herself in those comforting pools of green. "You have two minutes, Hardy."

Didn't need to tell Felicia twice. "I need to protect you, Emma and I can't just leave you alone. When I saw those men coming at you, I almost lost myself. Please, I'm not trying to be so bitchy. Tonight scared me half to death. I know how much you career means to you, but... but..."

She wrapped herself around the blonde, half to feel the supple body, half to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. "You're everything to me, Emma: you're my purpose, my shield, and my life. There's no way you're a trophy fuck, and you saying so hurts me more than you can imagine. I love you so much I can't even breathe right anymore. The very sight of you takes my breath away and every touch makes my heart race like I'm running a marathon. I can't stop protecting you because I can't stop loving you. I went too far, and I'm sorry."

Despite the apology, despite the declarations of love, Felicia felt Emma rip herself away. Bitter disappointment of losing everything shot through her until a set of warm lips pressed against her cheek. She opened her eyes and found Emma kneeled on the ground with her, body about to press against body. Felicia captured Emma's lips with her own and wouldn't let go. Long, pianist's fingers fumbled for the concealed zipper on the Black Cat costume. The platinum haired woman took pity on the frustrated digits and helped them along on their quest to remove the form fitting clothing.

A burst of movement brushed from her neck and down past her cleavage, finally freeing her ample breasts from their resting places. Enticed by Felicia's excited gasp, Emma's hands slinked under the neoprene and fondled and massaged and teased and pinched and rubbed for all their worth. The deft simulation reduced the mighty Black Cat to a pliable mass of purring nerves, the burning and yearning razing all thought as blood diverted to the most sensitive of regions.

Sex with Emma always blew her mind. Make-up sex simply defied description.

Felicia groaned and leaned back to allow easier access, but she forgot about the bookcase. Her head produced an impressive thump, crossing her eyes and stopping the amorous adventure in its tracks. A precariously balanced Batman comic tumbled from its perch about five feet up and landed open on Felicia's face.

The title: "Here Comes Catwoman!"

Emma laughed while Felicia growled. The Black Cat tossed the big boobed harlot's chronicles aside and glared at her highly amused lover, who by now had herself in stitches as she rolled over the carpet. The accident might've killed the mood, but Felicia remained as aroused as ever, the ache for release not easing. She found herself caught been wanting to laugh, cry, scream, or finish the freakin' job herself.

Felicia pounced on Emma and pinned her in one place. The laughter stopped as they gazed into each other's eyes... until Emma couldn't hold it in anymore and broke down in Felicia's face.

"Glad to know you're having fun."

The blonde steadied herself. "Oh honey, you're my Catwoman, and you know you can come for me any day!"

Predictably, the laughter resumed.

Catwoman. Here Comes Catwoman. Haha, very funny. Felicia might've laughed herself if she wasn't so keyed up. Attempting to distract Emma, she dove in with a kiss while her hands undid the button on the blonde's slacks. Giggles transformed into mews of pleasure, Felicia's fingers working some magic of their own between Emma's silken folds of flesh. Straining for more, Emma bucked her hips and grazed her clothed chest against Felicia's exposed breasts. Long locks of platinum hair shielded their sweaty, blissful faces from the world as the encounter sped to the climax.

Emma's mouth parted. Her entire being--her heart, her mind, her spirit--seized. The dampness on Felicia's two fingers grew, but they didn't stop. Small tremors induced by the fervor of love electrified both bodies. Blue eyes glazed over, breath caught, voice lost.

"I've got you," Felicia whispered, planting soft kisses on an euphoric Emma, "I love you..."

Their front door burst open. Still gripped in the throngs of passion, the women failed to summon the wherewithal to process the situation, much less fight back. Gloved hands pulled Felicia away and dragged Emma to her feet. Men, masked men all around them and more coming in. One of them stunned Felicia by clubbing her head with a baton. Others followed, striking her viciously, repeatedly, and mercilessly. They held her up by her arms so their hits would score more damage. When a particularly hard blow shattered a rib, the men whooped, some making comments about her jiggling breasts, half naked body, and or tortured cries.

Overwhelmed by sight of her lover's pain, Emma frantically screamed "STOP!"

Remarkably, the man stopped; Felicia slumped, motionless. From just outside the door, a familiar voice spoke. "Yeah, yeah! Them the bitches who fucked with my crew!"

Another deeper, refined voice chuckled. "Splendid, Mr. Ireveti." Fingers snapped to signal someone. "Bullseye, show these four men my deepest appreciation."

"Sure Boss. Come on boys, I got your cash waitin' in the car."

"Sweet!"

The men in ski masks parted. In walked a fat, bald, clean shaven man smoking a cigar and looking like he owned the world. He clutched Felicia's jaw and made the half dead woman look at him.

"The Black Cat," he greeted warmly, "My apologies for barging in unannounced. I notice you were... preoccupied."

Through half lidded eyes and trembling mouth, Felicia mumbled one name. "Kingpin."

He rammed his meaty fist into her stomach. The punch would've folded her in half if his cronies weren't propping her up. Turning his attention to Emma, the cold hearted monster smiled.

"What a beautiful blonde angel. Tell me, what's your name?"

Emma spat in his face.

Taking the gesture in stride and wiping the saliva away, Kingpin browsed the living room. He plucked three framed photographs from the coffee table and spent the better part of a minute admiring them.

"So I gather you two are lovers?"

One of the masked men snorted and scoffed, "Dirty dykes."

Moving faster than anyone anticipated, Kingpin stepped in front of the henchman and backhanded him to the ground. "I do not tolerate such remarks," he calmly noted, "I'm a businessman, not a bigot."

The others fell into line and the room silenced.

"Now then," he continued, sidling to Emma but facing the slowly recovering Felicia, "Business first. The Black Cat, or Felicia Hardy, has caused me a great deal of grief both financially and socially. Seeing as how I did gift her with her powers she is so adamantly using against me, I'd like her to stop. Now, that can be accomplished in three acceptable ways."

He began pacing. "One: the Black Cat comes to work for me. Goes without saying she'll be well compensated. While I do run a tight ship, my employees have remarkable benefits, including but limited to the best health coverage, ample reinforcements, and no threat of jail time. While this would be the speediest and most peaceful solution, I have a feeling her do-gooder self will conspire against me, so I'm leery at the proposition.

"Two: I kill the Black Cat. Such a graceful creature, I'd hate to waste her talents, but some things can't be helped. Nothing personal, business is business. I don't suppose that route bodes well with either of you.

"Three: I take this blonde lover and use her as leverage against Ms. Hardy. Not the most savory of arrangements, but certainly a most agreeable one from my perspective. The Black Cat keeps every one of her nine lives, no one gets hurt, and I have one less meddlesome needle in my side."

He spun to gaze at his platinum haired prisoner. "So what will it be?"

Felicia could barely keep her eyes open. The harsh holds applied by her captors dug into her tired limbs. Kingpin's thunderous blow hurt more than she cared to remember. Her body throbbed like a giant bruise while her head swam in a dizzying haze. Insulting words from earlier hammered at her pride, but she couldn't gather herself to stand up, much less retaliate.

The pleading, terrified look in Emma's eyes smashed her heart into meaningless shards.

She mouthed something quietly, too quietly for anyone to hear.

"Could you repeat that?" the Kingpin asked as he walked closer to her.

Felicia took a deep breath. "Kill me," she murmured, holding her sadness in, "Let Emma go."

No... "No! Felicia! You can't!"

The Kingpin glanced between the two separated women and nodded. "I will honor that," he said with a hint of respect, "There are those a lucky person would unquestioningly die for--I am one of the few who can readily sympathize." He motioned to one of his men who then drew a silenced pistol. "Would you like her here or somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else."

Between the menacing men, the fat mob boss, the defeat, the getting dragged away, the sadness, the desperation, the finality, the love, the hurt, the death, and oh, sweet, wonderful, caring, about-to-be-executed Felicia, something in Emma snapped. The limits of her telepathy lifted themselves and waves of thoughts assaulted the blonde. She sensed them, watched them, and with little effort, even manipulated them.

Every mind, so fragile.

Every consciousness, so close to dimming.

Every one here, so vulnerable.

Instinctively, she snared each interlopers' minds and shredded without rhyme or reason. Sudden shrieks filled the loft, people clutching their heads and dropping to their knees while they bled from their noses and ears. Even the mighty Kingpin succumb to the psychic attack, his normally collected countenance twisted into a mish mash of agony and cluelessness. She continued tearing for all she was worth, her rage fueling her to do more damage, to increase the suffering, to save Felicia.

Someone pounded down the hall. The last of Kingpin's flunkies, the one called Bullseye, the one who took four men outside under the pretense of paying them but instead slit their throats. He'd suffer too, but before Emma could act, he fired his gun. The bullet bounced off the doorknob and hurled itself through her midsection, stomach, spine, and back. An immediate chill shot down her lower body and she couldn't feel her legs anymore; however, she could feel blood collecting in her insides before spilling out of her newly formed cavities.

Bullseye came into the room long enough to see Emma collapsing, the Kingpin foaming at the mouth, and Felicia scooping up the silenced semi-automatic handgun which was suppose to spell her doom. Fifteen bullets rattled from the weapon, seven of them striking the costumed man. He dropped and didn't get up.

Felicia crawled over to Emma and held her love to her chest.

"_You're turning me on,"_ the blonde mentally said, too wounded to physically speak, _"Zip up. I don't have enough blood to go around now."_

Felicia couldn't even appreciate the humor.

She cried as she watched Emma's life leave her.

Police sirens blared in the background. The windows shattered and in swung Spiderman and Daredevil. They directed help as best they could, but in the end, all either could do was comfort their friend and pray for the best.

* * *

_**Two years later...**_

Emma took a break from grading her literature class' finals and glanced at the clock. Eleven PM--Felicia and Peter should've been done with their patrol by now. Tapping into her telepathy, Emma scoured New York City and found her two charges horsing around in Times Square, basically wowing the Japanese tourists with their death defying acrobatics and autograph signing skills.

_"Both of you,"_ she growled, letting her unhappiness be known, _"You're crime fighters, not circus acts."_

Peter winced at Emma's irritation._ "Busted,"_ he sighed. _"Well, I'm going home to MJ. Catch you later, Cat!"_

He webslinged away, leaving an inundated Felicia Hardy to fend for herself, both with the enamored tourists and the ticked off Emma. Following shouts of revenge and a half hearted chase, the woman hightailed herself back to her new base of operations: Kingpin's former skyscraper.

Up and up she climbed, finally gliding into the top floor with her proverbial tail tucked behind her. "Sorry, Emma," she blushed, "We, umm, got carried away."

Massaging the bridge of her nose, the blonde put down her red pen and frowned at her wife. "How are we suppose to be a fearsome crime fighting force when two of the three field members are always acting like rock stars?"

"Rock stars? Matt's the one that looks like a rock star, all dressed up like Stevie Wonder in red spandex. Not our fault the Manhattan travel guide calls us 'integral pillars of justice' and puts us on the cover! We gotta let loose once in a while."

Furious at the lackadaisical attitude, Emma wheeled herself from behind her immaculately neat desk. "How is putting your life on the line in the middle of a crime infested city a good time or place to 'let loose'? You're doing this for the general public, not to be a tourist attraction!"

"Fine," Felicia acquiesced, bending down to kiss Emma, "You made your point. No more having fun when we're out on patrols. There, happy?"

"Quite," she grumbled. Stupid Felicia never did fight fair when she got in trouble. Mild annoyance replaced the anger of seconds ago, and all Emma could do was get herself minimally worked up. "If you and Peter can't control yourselves, I'm going to have to get outside help, digitize our operation, and run a vigilante group without the consent of the New York authorities."

"Might not be a bad idea," Felicia mischievously grinned, "I'll retire, and after you establish yourself as cyber crime fighter, you can dole out information to the superhero community under the mysterious pseudonym of the Oracle."

The mischievous glimmer infected Emma, but she combined it with her derisive sarcasm and trademarked flowery speech. "As the all knowing Oracle, I'll get Hawkeye and Warbird to do my dirty work, then we can call ourselves something utterly dim-witted like the Birds of Prey."

The two women stared at each other and blinked.

"Nah," they both said at the same time.

Felicia got behind Emma's wheelchair and dutifully escorted her wife to the kitchen. "So, what's for dinner tonight, honey?"

"Takeout."

"Again?" she muttered, "We need a butler."

"I hear Peter knows a good one who's looking for work."

"Really? What's his name?"

"Charles Xavier or something."

* * *

-The next tale awaits... 


	3. What If Emma Ruled the World?

Notes: Another one of these things! Sheesh. Yeah, plenty of warning for language and violence, not to mention disturbing images. Just to tell ya. Still a standalone chapter unrelated to the previous two.

* * *

_**What If Emma..**_

by Yimmy

Chapter 3: What If Emma Ruled the World?

* * *

She stalked me like a lioness. Over there on the other side of room, there she was again, flute of champagne at her lips and her eyes brushing up and down my body. Her hair shined unnaturally, the blonde a little too blonde. I immediately found myself wondering what kind of dye she used, but then again, in this day and age of mutants, anything was possible. Actually, with my own unique hair color, I was probably the last one to talk. 

That's when I shuddered uneasily. While dignitaries and entrepreneurs worked up a sweat to garner my attention, this enigma in white leather had me glued to her just by staring...

Staring and stalking.

"Quentin," I whispered into the disguised communicator on my shoulder, "Who is woman at my two o'clock?"

My earpiece squawked before my info-man answered. "That's Emma Frost, owner of Frost Enterprises."

"Any relation to Winston Frost?"

"Si senorita, she's daddy's little girl, but get this-"

"The elder Frost doesn't have a subsidiary named Frost Enterprises."

"Bingo. Good memory, chief."

"How did she get her invitation?"

I heard him tap away on his keyboard. "Apparently, she tagged along with the Hellfire Club."

"And the Hellfire Club has more than a passing interest in Symkaria."

"Passing interest? Try unhealthy obsession. I've ID'ed at least eight members milling around the embassy."

Eight? "I only remember two being on the guest list."

"Well, you try turning down multi-billionaires when they show up at your doorstep."

Shit. If etiquette would permit me, I'd bark a profanity or ten into Quentin's ear and then demand to see the diplomat in charge of this fiasco, but no. Already my quiet mutterings had garnered too much attention and all I could manage was a "Sable out" before resuming the oh-so-pleasant task of fending off balding, middle-aged men looking to bed me.

If that weren't enough, I was suppose to be providing security for my country's ambassadors, and not only that, I was also on the look out for potential clients who'd offer lucrative deals to my mercenary team, the Wild Pack.

God as my witness, I loved my country, but sometimes, it asked too much of me. Was it not enough that I support most of the nation through my life threatening exploits? Was it not enough that I be its public image? Was it not enough that I brought it renown at heavy costs to myself?

And through my moment of weakness, those eyes kept themselves on me. They were like physical forces, testing my reactions and gauging my abilities. I considered telling Quentin to watch her, but doing so would be admitting a measure of failure.

I knew she watched me. She knew I watched her back. A third player would upset our game: one brought in by me would make me seem beaten and no one beat me. Ever since that dark day long ago when my mother died before my eyes, I promised myself no one would ever beat me at anything again.

Loss wasn't an option.

So Winston's daughter wanted to play? I had no love for the old man and I sure as hell wasn't extending any to his daughter. The mogul built his fortune and subsequent reputation through ruthless tactics and underhanded maneuvers. I dealt with him once before and never wished to deal with him again. If this woman was a tenth of the miserly shark her father was, I'd be in for a long night.

That's when the realization hit me... again. What was I thinking? Everyone in here fit the mold of miserly shark. With Symkaria finally opening its borders to foreign investors, many of them salivated at having their way with my country. They viewed it as a potential refuge, a place tied to the first world but far enough removed to get away with questionable business practices.

The proposed "global partnership" was one which I vehemently opposed. The oft quoted counterpoint to my stance? "Even Silver Sable cannot support us forever." The sentence encapsulated many voices, some power hungry, some simply looking out for my own welfare. Whatever the purpose, I hated it and the support it garnered from the population.

"Quentin?"

"Loud n' clear, chief."

"Have Mia cover for me."

"Where are you going?" he asked, surprised.

"Out for some fresh air."

Before he could protest, I muted my comm-unit and excused myself from the inane conversation my Uncle Morty dragged me into. Ignoring his protests, I slipped into the many hallways of the Symkaria embassy, confident my intimate knowledge of the building would give me the privacy I needed. My feet went on autopilot as Uncle Morty's voice became more distant. Soon, the only noise around me was the tapping of my heels on the marble floor.

Through the silence, I heard my earpiece beeping, signs that someone wanted to contact me. At first, I ignored them, but the beeping became incessant and annoying. With a satisfying crunch, I ground the device into a million little pieces under my left shoe.

Finally, peace and quiet.

I opened the roof-access door which rewarded me with a cold chill and inky darkness of night. No moon tonight, and somehow, I liked it that way. By no means was I dressed for the freezing weather, but this solitude outstripped the monotony inside. I'd rather be shivering and dotted with goose bumps than suffering through the slow downfall of Symkaria.

Make no mistake about it: should my country fall into ruin, it wouldn't be my fault. I worked and bled for it and this was how it repaid me, by opening its borders to foreigners who wanted to milk us for all we were worth.

Great. Excellent. Fantastic. Did my father's legacy mean anything to these people? Did I mean anything to these people?

"You look stressed."

The sudden, unanticipated voice threw me for a loop, prompting me to whip around and almost send my fist into her face. Yes, her, as in Emma Frost. Somehow, I knew her voice despite having never heard it. Nothing about her reminded me of her father; had I not asked Quentin, I would've discarded the connection immediately.

How did she get up here? Did she follow me? The knowing smirk she wore bothered me, as if she knew something I didn't. Shoring up my defenses, I reigned in my racing pulse and relaxed my arms to my side. I watched her gloved hand pull out a gold cigarette box from the inside pocket of her white mink coat. The oversized vestment parted just enough to reveal her generous bust held in check by strategically placed lengths of white leather.

She flipped open the container. "Would you like one?"

"Yes," I reflexively answered. Only when she moved to light my stick of menthol tobacco did I remember I didn't smoke. Too little too late though--the first stings of cooling smoke entering my lungs made me cough, enough to chaff my throat. I yanked the insidious little thing away, and when I looked up, I saw her raising a brow at me, cigarette between her middle and index fingers, wisps of smoke hugging her face like a faint dream.

Blue eyes burrowed into my being. My breath shortened, and in that split second, I felt icy talons sinking into my soul.

Or it might've been the menthol cigarette.

"I'm an admirer of yours," she said between drags of smoke, "There aren't many strong women in the business world today, and certainly in your particular line of business, there are even fewer. Your determination is inspiring."

The lure of sleep dizzied me. My cigarette escaped from my limp fingers and crashed onto the ground, lit ashes stumbling from its tip. "Thank you," I softly replied as my head swam in the choking haze.

Tired... needed to sleep. My knees weakened and caused me to stumble. If not for the lightning quickness of a warm, leather bound arm, I would've dropped like a fool. Something moved against my midback and unclasped the buckle on my bra.

She exhaled another ploom of smoke as she steadied me. "You must be exhausted. Must be draining trying to support a home that so easily cast you aside."

"Exhausting and frustrating," I mumbled. Anger usually spurred me on, but tonight, I couldn't bring myself to fight away my fatigue. How embarrassing: literally falling asleep on this other woman's feet. "I'm sorry. I'm just... so... so..."

"Yes?"

So... what was I thinking about? Where was I? What time was it? I glanced down at my watch but I wasn't wearing one.

Her hand pressed against the front of my shoulder. The base of her palm skimmed over the top of my breast and electrified me. My mouth gasped on its own while my eyes sewed shut. Felt like a knife cut through parts of my mind and left behind only what it wanted.

"Mmmm," she groaned, "What do we have here?"

A finger dipped under my shoulder straps and peeled them away. Cold air rushed unabated against more of my skin. I forced my eyes open into tiny slits and got hit by another smoky puff. Her hand cupped my left breast, and wasn't I wearing a bra? Where did it go?

The hand became brave and kneaded, the sudden shock in my tender regions tingling in response. Blood rushed to every place in my body and caused my still clothed right breast to strain against the cloth. "You're generously gifted, Ms. Sable, or can I call you Silver?"

Before I knew it, my back thudded against an icy wall. Luxuriously full lips claimed mine and warmed my cooling body. A wet tongue lashed away in my mouth: I relaxed myself to let it explore. Unsupported, the right side of my dress slipped off as I heaved against the excitement welling below my stomach.

She tasted sweet, sweeter than anything I'd tasted before. I strained for more of her and she broke away.

"Greedy little thing," she laughed, cupping my chin. "Who knew Symkaria's breadwinner was such a slut?"

I missed the constant touch. I needed to come now. I moaned as my own hands squeezed and fondled my breasts. A thin layer of sweat crept onto my skin, my fingers slipping against my smooth flesh. I could almost feel my clitoris protruding from my sex. I was so close, so wet, but my body refused to hurl itself over the edge.

"You can't come unless I let you."

My eyes shot open. With no regard for decency, I begged. "Please," I rasped out, "please..."

"On one condition, Silver. Do you want to hear it?"

Her hand snaked around to my back and slowly pulled down the zipper holding my drooping dress up. The fleeting contact and paralyzing anticipation dominated my mind. I forgot what trouble soured my mood. A constant euphoria engulfed me like nothing else.

I'd never felt so alive. She pulled the front of my dress down and exposed my stomach. All I could do was mew in pleasure.

"If I let you come, you will be mine. You'll exist for no one else. Is that fine with you, Silver?"

She reached under my panties and toyed with the hairs I'd meticulously trimmed.

"Do you want it that way, Silver?"

Something grazed over my damp slit.

"What's your answer, Silver?"

With a rip, she tore my dress and panties away. The expensive and now ruined material clung to my ankles as I screamed at the top of my lungs, "YES!"

"Well then," she smiled triumphantly, "We don't want to keep you waiting any longer now, do we?"

Mercilessly, she pinched my clit. The sharp contrast of heady arousal and unadulterated pain destroyed the last of my thoughts. I shuddered as rapidly cooling wetness rolled down my inner thighs. The slippery penetration of her digits filled me, the unique sensation of pumping, glossy leather making me come and come and come and come and come until my legs gave out.

I collapsed onto all fours, the fire in my sex still burning but my weak body too tired to go on. She grabbed my silvery mane of hair and pulled me up so I kneeled before her. I automatically met her eyes and trembled at the commanding presence they exuded.

"Who am I?"

Was that even a question? "My everything. My Queen."

"What are you?"

"Your belonging. Your subject."

The answer made Her smile and Her smile made me wet.

"Tell me, when will the rest of your Wild Pack be looking for you?"

I delved into somewhere a lifetime ago. My Queen needed information and I existed to provide it no matter what the cost. This Silver Sable woman trained her people well and instilled them with instincts for trouble and a fierce loyalty. Her disappearance for any prolonged length of time would make them suspicious.

"They should be looking for Silver Sable right now."

She cursed under Her breath and I shrank at Her rage. Did I answer wrong? "Where is your room?" She demanded.

"Third floor. I know a way to get there without others noticing."

My gamble to predict what She wanted paid off. Pleased, She tiled my head up and licked my lips. "Get your dress and lead me there."

I walked back into the Symkaria embassy a changed woman. Where I once knew only anger and bitterness, I now had a purpose. Where I once slaved for an ungrateful country, I now worshipped Her. She took away my suffering and gave me fulfillment; to repay her, I'd do anything. With the torn remains of my dress in arm and two cigarette butts left on the roof, I guided Her into the inner sanctums of the building and hoped for Her approval.

Nothing else mattered.

* * *

_Three weeks later at the Shaw Estate..._

"I'm impressed, Emma." Sebastian swirled the brandy in his glass as he paced around his study. "I thought our White King had the Symkarians eating out of his hand. What happened?"

Reclining on one of the sofas, Emma arched her back and purred. "I have my ways, Sebastian. Edward Buckman is impressive but not infallible."

He left the sly, self-praising words alone. That was his budding ally though, all talk, attitude, and killer instinct but few resources to see her grandiose plans through. That's why she needed the Hellfire Club; that's why she needed him. The woman had potential and Sebastian Shaw respected potential.

"The Sentinel Program will be moved into Symkaria by the end of this week. Make sure your contacts know and can begin production as soon as possible."

"Oh, don't worry," she said with a smirk, "Production has already begun."

And that's when the ground shook. Sebastian, caught flat-footed by the tremor, didn't quite believe it at first. The loud sound of thrusters blew out the windows and sent the mountain of a man ducking for cover. Oblivious to the destruction and sudden appearance of the soon-to-be feared, gigantic, purple hand, Emma writhed about as if being serviced by one of the Hellfire Club's many servants.

Never one to take punishment lying down, the aspiring Black King rose to his feet and roared at the woman. "Traitor!" he bellowed, "You kept the Sentinels for your own!"

"It's only the tip of the iceberg, Sebastian. Why don't you have a look outside?"

The Sentinel's hand opened and fired out a blast similar to Iron Man's repulsor rays. Though his body soaked up the kinetic force and made him stronger, the attack threw Sebastian through his study's door. Out in the foyer, he watched as a mildly familiar woman dressed in a shiny, silver, full-bodied, skin-tight outfit hoist up her submachine gun and fire.

Sebastian followed the woman's deadly line of sight and saw her targets: his love, Lourdes Chantel, and his closest friend, Harry Leland. His two stalwart supporters focused on the Sentinels peeling the ceiling back and didn't notice this woman. Before he could shout a warning, the gun discharged in rapid succession and bullets pierced their skulls, thin jets of blood spraying from the exit wounds.

The silver haired woman wasted no time either, immediately training her weapon on him and letting fly another hail of projectiles. Aided by his rush of enhanced strength and speed, Sebastian lunged behind a pillar, bullets chasing him every step of the way. From one of the guest rooms down the hall, the current White King and White Queen--Edward Buckman and Paris Seville--came running out, both of them half dressed.

Laying eyes on the hulking monstrosities, the White King's face twisted with rage. "Stop!" he yelled, his fist raised and his feet moving him toward the machines. "This wasn't part of the plan! I'm not suppose to be here when it happens! Stop!"

One of the Sentinels cocked its head at the furious man and his screaming, terrified woman. It didn't like the decibels emanating from the combined might of those two sets of lungs, so it raised a hand and brought it down on the couple with a crackling smack.

When its servo-operated appendage retracted, all that remained was a pool of intermingling red.

Seeing the woman distracted, Sebastian dashed from his hiding place and threw his most powerful punch into her gut. Instead of crashing into her soft flesh, his fist met nothing but air as she dropped down as agile as a cat and swept his legs out from under him. Recovering before him, she removed a crescent-like throwing star--one of many strapped to her thighs and upper arms--and hurled it between Sebastian's eyes. By the skin of his teeth did he get his arms up in time to block the strike, and combined with his earlier absorption of so much kinetic energy, the weapon harmlessly bounced away.

Sebastian grinned at the startled look on the woman's face and sneered, "My turn."

A thunderous hit to her sternum hurled her end over end into the dining table and sent her gun skipping and sliding to the side. Consumed by thoughts of vengeance, Sebastian forgot about the Sentinels as he moved to finish off this cold hearted killer.

His ignorance almost cost him his life.

Two repulsor blasts knocked him through a wall and into Tessa's quarters. His aide sat on her bed, stoic and focused.

"What are you waiting for?" demanded Sebastian as his body metabolized more of the kinetic energy. "Get out of here! Can't you see we're under attack?"

Tessa shivered, and all of a sudden, blood gushed from her nose. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, coinciding with her body toppling over. She coughed once, twice, and on the third time, a coagulated mess erupted, choking her.

In a matter of seconds, she lay so very still.

No... Tessa... Harry... Lourdes...

Sebastian turned around to see a smug looking Emma Frost staring back at him.

"How could you?" the man spat, "Why did you do this to us, you traitorous harpy?"

"Because I could, Sebastian. You're an arrogant fool, an inviting target, and I'm not the only one taking the shot. What? You thought Edward's Sentinels were only to hunt down the X-Men? No, they were to be his private army of mutant destroyers and he had us as prime targets. You thought your Tessa was loyal to you? I rifled through her mind before I fried it: she is one of Xavier's spies. Everyone's using you, Sebastian. You're like a virgin looking for a husband at the docks. Sooner or later, someone was going to fuck you and leave you."

She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and blew him a kiss. "We had a good time, lover boy, and I'm glad I beat everyone else to virgin." She snapped her fingers. "Sable?"

The woman in silver stepped out behind Emma, menacing looking handgun aimed at his head.

"Finish him."

He tried to move again but Emma held him in place with her telepathic powers. And though his body toughened from the kinetic energy he'd been shot with, skin and bone alone couldn't stop three fifty caliber bullets from burrowing into his forehead.

* * *

**Newsweek**: "_Mutant Threat Met_..." 

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK--Months ago, few heard about the fledgling investment firm, Frost Enterprises. Today, the company is one which inspires great pride in humanity's fight against mutants. After coming from nowhere to secure an exclusive development contract with the munitions wizards at Silver Sable International, Emma Grace Frost--founder of Frost Enterprises--unveiled the Sentinel, a three story tall machine geared toward detecting and eliminating subversive mutants like Magneto and those of the terrorist group, the Mutant Liberation Front or M.L.F. Manufactured at Silver Sable International's headquarters in Symkaria, this behemoth represents the best and brightest of humanity, integrating ingenuity and space-aged technology in one mutant combating package.

Some people like mutants rights activist Charles Xavier and Avengers leader Captain America have expressed doubts over the ethical usage of the Sentinels. However, much of the criticism died down when two Sentinels killed noted mutant criminals Pyro and Blob while the duo attempted a bank robbery. In light of the recent success, the United Nations is prepared to look into deploying these robots in times of a global mutant crisis.

* * *

**The Daily Bugle**: "_Good Riddance to Spiderman_..." 

SYMKARIA EMBASSEY, NEW YORK--After having terrorized the streets for over four years, the menace known as Spiderman will finally be leaving the Big Apple. Silver Sable International, a questionable outfit of mercenaries who employ "superhumans," has hired the spandex clad webslinger on a permanent basis. Given the "International" part of Silver Sable International, the innocents of New York can only hope and pray that this means Spiderman will be sent out on international exploits, thereby leaving the rest of the mere mortals in peace.

Reed Richards of the Fantastic Four made the following comment over Spiderman's new state of employment.

"I always viewed Spiderman as an altruistic individual who didn't charge for his services. Well, I guess things change."

Indeed they do, Mr. Richards. It's called money and not having any puts a crimp on anyone's day. Maybe the webhead got wise and decided to whore out his talents. I hear Silver Sable International has him available for bridal showers and bat mitzvahs on weekends.

* * *

_CNN's Evening News_... 

"And in business news today, Frost Enterprises has acquired Worthington Industries in a hostile takeover. This comes directly after noted inventor Tony Stark agreed to work with another Frost affiliate, Silver Sable International, on enhancing the new iteration of the wildly popular Sentinels. Shares of technology and military firms have risen sharply to meet the growing demands of this sudden boom. In fact, many experts credit the shrewd moves of CEO Emma Frost with revitalizing a weakened economy. Mutant rights activists are currently staging protests, proclaiming that Frost Enterprises is making its fortune off of genocide..."

* * *

**The Los Angeles Times**: "_MAGNETO KILLED_!" 

GENOSHA, SOUTH AFRICA--The headline is true: the infamous Master of Magnetism has been killed after his week long stand-off with international authorities. Distressed at what he called "a united attempt to eradicate the homo superior," Magneto and his allies, the self-proclaimed Acolytes, took the island nation of Genosha which Frost Enterprises used as a testing facility for much of its Sentinel project. The madmen stormed the grounds and freed many outlaw mutants who then used their powers to either escape captivity or aid their rescuers. The X-Men responded to the area first, but amidst the chaos, some of their number turned to support Magneto. With their combined powers, they overwhelmed the few Sentinels and issued a challenge to their creator, Emma Frost, one who they called "their fellow mutant sister."

After a tense stand-off with United Nations forces, the ever reclusive Emma Frost arrived with a crack team of mercenaries and a squadron of Sentinels. Aided by the likes of Iron Man and the Hulk, Emma Frost was able to use herself as bait and rely on her support to quell the largest mutant uprising in history.

"We're pleased," said Silver Sable, owner of Silver Sable International, managing partner at Frost Enterprises, and commander of the Wild Pack, "The conflict ended with minimal causalities and humanity's greatest threat has been eliminated. Our thoughts and prayers go out to those who lost family and friends in this senseless act, but rest assured, their sacrifice was not in vein."

While the world applauds Emma Frost's bravery, increasingly derided mutant activists lament the "wholesale massacre of oppressed individuals." They continue to insist that the Sentinels contain hidden subroutines which allow them to target anyone, not just "high risk" mutants. Even in the face of all her support, Emma Frost has invited experts, even mutant experts like Doctor Henry McCoy, to comb over her life's work and try to find a hint of improperness.

* * *

**Playboy Magazine**: "_Happy Birthday, Emma Frost_..." 

FROST ENTERPRISES HEADQUARTERS, MANHATTAN--You shouldn't ask a woman her age so we'll just say a little fluttery voice told us: the statuesque beauty who has stolen our hearts, eased our minds, and become sickeningly rich while doing it has turned the big three-five. Yeah, that's right, the woman who launched a million wet dreams with her ample assets is old enough to be yo momma...

Or President of the U.S. of A.

Ever since Hilary Clinton got politically decimated, there hasn't been a woman to fill the void, but that all changes as this issue goes to the presses. Trust us: not only does she have the funds to campaign, she has the brains and the backing. Come on! Maker of the Sentinel? Employer of millions? Protector of humanity from the scum of mutants? And that body! Oh God almighty that body! But seriously, over the years, she's been nothing but a media darling, saying all the right things and converting even her staunchest opponents.

Hey, if mutant extraordinaire Charles Xavier can be convinced of Emma's greatness, anyone can be. She has Tony Stark's vote of confidence and Captain America's seal of approval. She threw the first pitch at last year's World Series and employs the Fantastic Four. She's an active lobbyist and the owner of the world's best rack.

Did I write about that body yet? Sigh...

Anyways, what's not to love about Emma Grace Frost for President? The woman can't be bribed because she has so much freakin' money. Special interests groups giving her problems? She can cut them a big fat check and tell them to go screw themselves. Terrorists want to do something to the country? Hell, not on her watch. I'd be afraid of any woman who can bring legions of towering Sentinels on my head at a moment's notice. I mean, through her subsidiaries, it's been calculated that she has enough firepower to blow a small country out of existence.

Yeah, you read right, a small country. Something small like Canada.

Happy birthday, Emma Frost. We here at Playboy salute you and your huge, fabulous, and hypnotizing brea... breakfast buns.

* * *

_Excerpt from David Letterman's "Top Ten Reason Why Emma Frost Shouldn't be President..."_

"Coming in at number three: Her time could be better spent on Maxim's centerfold!"

(Audience laughter.)

"Whoa, yowzah. Hey Paul, doesn't she own CBS now?"

"I'm afraid she does."

"Well, there goes my job."

(Audience laughter and crash symbol.)

"Ok, ok, number two: Blondes can't be President!"

(Audience laughter.)

"Hear that? That's the sound of my retirement fund going down the drain. Since we're there already, let's finish it! And number one: Owning the country is much easier than running it!"

* * *

_Excerpt from President Frost's victory speech..._

".. forward and concern ourselves with not only today's problems but tomorrow's as well. As President, I vow to make our future a safe one, one which our children will be glad to inherit. I will hold myself accountable for yesterday's wrongs and work diligently to correct them. You have my promise that this great nation has my attention above and beyond Frost Enterprises.

"Contrary to David Letterman's words, a blonde can be President, and today, I hope I've proven that anyone--and I do mean anyone--can be President if they work hard enough. The glass ceiling has been shattered and here's to it never coming back."

(Applause.)

"Oh, and David? You're fired."

(Audience laughter.)

* * *

I walked by the security detail patrolling the halls. Both of them were Wild Pack members, each specially trained by myself to conform to Her highest expectations. They served Her well through the years, well enough to be awarded this task of protecting Her in Her new home. 

"Chief," said the leader as he spotted me.

I looked at my watch. "When is the next team coming to relieve you?"

"Five minutes," he responded crisply, suddenly realizing that this was indeed a test.

"Who is in the next team?"

"Sanders, Nelson, Pratt, and Dyani."

"Where is Madame President?"

"In residential wing."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Good," I complimented. "Make sure She is not disturbed for the remainder of the night. Redirect all calls except emergencies and even then to my cell phone. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am."

I continued into Her dwelling, past the door guards, past the living room, through the den, past the first couple doors, and directly into the presidential suite. She wore an ensemble of Her trademark white and well-tailored pantsuit. Resting in Her hand, an unlit menthol cigarette. She moved two of the chairs in front of the bulletproof and tinted window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. The hustle and bustle gleamed at Her from the comfort and privacy of Her domain.

Unacknowledged, I stood where I was and tried my hardest not to disturb Her. Deep, long breaths hounded the silence away, and by experience, I knew She was contemplating something enormous.

"Sit," She said, gesturing to the extra chair before Her.

I did as I was told. As I sat, She watched me, Her eyes scouring deep within my soul and looking for something only She could fathom. She watched me like that more and more often, yet despite no orders of the sort from Her, the beginnings of moisture never failed to creep over my slit when She examined me closely.

Though I tried not to, I always ended up gauging Her thoughts. My perception was a by-product of my battle prowess, a talent which I honed to the best of my meager ability. More often than not, I found myself pleasing Her greatly when I guessed right. The rewards for my astuteness far outweighed the punishment for my presumptuous thought, so I continued to read Her.

It wasn't right but I still did it.

Tonight, She watched me with an unidentifiable passion. Another might've called the gaze hollow, but I knew better: She only made Herself impassive when confronted by an emotional choice. What the choice was I couldn't get a handle on. Was that longing in Her eyes? Maybe sadness?

My heart ached at the very thought.

"Are you... happy, Silver?"

"Yes." Why wouldn't I be? My Queen was here and my life did not need anything else.

She flicked Her cigarette into a nearby trashcan. Her velvety palm brushed my neck and wove into my long hair, playing with it like only She could. "I mean, do you want to be here?"

The questions scared me. "Yes," I answered again, this time quicker. Had I displeased Her in some way? I'd seen this exact scenario play out, My Queen pretending to be vulnerable but only waiting for Her prey to ease before She sprung something on them. I'd seen it too many times to count and this scared me.

No, not because of the grizzle fate usually reserved for those She loathed but because I might've failed her.

"Of course," She laughed humorlessly, "Of course you want to be here. Of course you're happy. I made you that way, didn't I?"

"Yes."

Something in Her broke and I could see the tears building behind the bastion of strength. Right then and there, I knew my answer was wrong.

She bolted out of Her chair and stomped to the king sized bed.

The dagger in my chest twisted. "No!" I said, my hand extending but my body refusing to get up because She didn't will it.

Upon hearing my revised answer, Her back stiffened. Slowly, She turned to face me. A small part of me remarked that I looked like a frightened child but I didn't care. Something trouble My Queen and I had to fix it.

"Look at me, Silver."

I brought my hand down and looked.

"I. Rule. The. World." Her arms spread out toward the sky. "I own everything! I am the highest deity to these simpletons! I can ruin entire countries with a word. I can make or break fortunes if I want to. Tomorrow when I get up, I will have 87 of the nation working for me or a corporation I control. No one can touch me; no one can deny me. If I can't buy someone, I'll brainwash them. If I can't brainwash them, I'll kill them. I rule this entire mud ball, and guess what? It's not fun anymore.

"I spent my whole life trying to be powerful, and now that I'm more powerful than God, I have nothing to live for. Everyday, I watch the world watch me, waiting to jump when I tell it to. Nothing's hard anymore, and I can't stand it. I never thought I'd say this, but I can't stand people groveling before me. I can't stand how everyone wants to kiss my feet. I can't stand how my very presence gets me what I want. I can't stand how there are no more mountains to climb."

She brought Her face close to mine. "I can't stand how you look at me with those empty eyes and say what I want you to say. I can't stand how I love you. I can't stand how you've been my only constant since I began this mad dash to power. I can't stand how I'll never know if you'd really love me if I hadn't tampered with your mind that fateful night."

She bit my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "And most of all," She whispered between the tears, "I can't stand losing you. I want to love you, I want you as my equal, I want to rule the world with you, but I'm afraid. Silver Sable would never let me get away with what I've done to you and the rest of the world. I know she's still there somewhere, locked away in your mind. I know she can hear me and I know I want her, but at the same time, I'm terrified of her."

I'd never seen Her like this before. Despite the years under Her, I had no idea what to say back. With such adversity crowding me, my mind backpedaled and resorted to an undeniable truth. "You're My Queen. My everything. I love you."

She kissed my forehead while tears ran down her cheeks. "I know..."

* * *

_Breaking news on NBC affiliate, WRC 4..._

"This just in: a gunshot has been reported in the residential wing of the White House. We don't know who was shot, but reports indicate at least one fatality. Again, gunfire in the White House. The area has been cordoned off by the Secret Service. We'll have more of this breaking story as it develops..."

* * *

- The next tale awaits... 


	4. What If Emma Joined the Original XMen?

Notes: This one's mild compared to the previous stories. It's a little sweet, darkly humorous, and definitely Emma.

* * *

_**What If Emma..?**_

by Yimmy

Chapter 4: What If Emma Joined the Original X-Men?

* * *

A cold, dark night this was. My breath billowed from my mouth and framed the streets in a trippy haze. Streetlights burst through my wall of fog as the breeze from incoming cars ripped the ephemeral barrier to shreds. In my bone white fingers I clutched a now-worn strip of paper. Scrawled on it in messy yet captivating print: "Jean. Café Roma. 8 PM." 

I folded the paper again and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.

Jean. I didn't even know her, but she passed me this note at the end of my econ class, said "I can help you with what you're going through," and left without another peep.

The day degenerated into a blur once I read the missive. Couldn't wait to be done with classes, couldn't wait to get back to the dorms, couldn't wait to wait out the five hours, couldn't wait to walk to Empire University's most famous (and quite frankly, only) coffee house. I kept going back to the flaming red hair and penetrating green eyes reading me, knowing me without knowing me. Then and there, we communicated more through a shared look than volumes of text could convey. She said nothing about mutants or hearing other's thoughts. She didn't look or sound enthusiastic. She was the picture perfect avatar of trouble, yet somehow, I knew she was my salvation.

Call it woman's intuition.

Café Roma's neon sign appeared around the corner, its lights accentuated by the night mist and broken streetlight. Empty newspaper machines passed me by, their mocking, moodless interiors and cracked glass fronts making this Manhattan street all the more menacing.

I took out the note again. It still said "Jean." It still said "Café Roma." It still said "8 PM." Back in my pocket it went.

Acid jazz floated out opened doors. Coffee filled aromas warmed my nose. This late, students still flooded the chic place for their fix of caffeine either to pursue those precious studying hours or recharge for another round of binge drinking. I looked through the sign riddled window and caught a glimpse of Jean nestled in the corner booth.

She stared at me and smiled.

Hooks dug into my chest and caused a film of cold sweat to break loose. The anticipation of meeting someone else like me was too much. I wasn't the only freak in this world; I wasn't alone. If her words held any truth, then she could do something about the otherly chaos in my head, about the emotions swimming inside of me that weren't mine. Maybe I'd even be able to sleep tonight without someone else's nightmares waking me.

Then again, she could be someone using me, someone like everyone else in my life. I still remembered my staged kidnapping that turned too real and the debacle that lead to me pocketing enough of dear Daddy's money to come to this school. I still remembered every aching second of it, and here, outside of Café Roma, the memory wouldn't be ignored.

"Jean" could be a government agent trained to seek and destroy mutants. Those deemed important would be shipped off to an undisclosed facility and reprogrammed to be tools. Jean could've been that and much worse, perhaps even a power-hungry, manipulative mutant who long ago figured out the vulnerabilities of those like me.

Maybe mutants have been around for centuries and only now have they burst into the public eye. Maybe Jean was an ancient force like a god, slowly but surely untapping the potential in normal people.

Or maybe I spent too much time in front of the TV. My imagination started running away from me again. Maybe she was one of those religious girls from one of those many church groups and knew about mutants. Maybe she had nothing to do with mutants at all and was just one of those religious girls.

"You've been standing here for a long time."

Doubtful.

This Jean behind me looked nothing like the one I saw this morning or the ones I dreamed about in my head. She was warm and inviting, a spoonful of wholesomeness and a nice helping of strength. She couldn't be older than me, but yet, something about her made her seem... experienced.

"Sorry for being so dramatic earlier. I had an appointment to catch and, well, you know how that goes."

Her hands nestled two foam cups of steaming hot coffee. She offered one of them to me--which I gratefully took--and tucked her lawless red hair behind her ear.

"My full name's Jean Grey, by the way. What's yours?"

I couldn't quite put together the person before me. Was she danger or safety? Where in the alluring face did I spot the seedlings of trouble? What about her glued my mind to her? What kind of things had she seen to get to this point today? Was she a friend or just another user taking advantage of me?

I tested my coffee and marveled at how I didn't fall over unconscious or dead. Ok, so maybe she wasn't part of a government conspiracy. "I'm Emma Frost," I replied, "and I hope you pulled me out of my dorm room for good reason."

"How does getting control of your mutant powers sound?"

My fingers almost let go of the cup but an unseen force held it up, allowing me time to recover and reestablish my grip. The couple who walked by didn't even look at us funny considering Jean uttered the increasingly inflammatory "m"-word.

"My power is telekinesis," she supplied, answering the question on the tip of my tongue, "I can move things with my mind and I'm starting to learn how to make shields. So far, all I've been able to do is make a soundproof bubble and keep falling coffee cups afloat, but it's something."

It was all very interesting, but "How can you help me?"

She took a long drink of her coffee. "There's this school I'm part of..."

* * *

**_Three years later at Professor Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters..._**

"Oh no, no way, this is not happening."

Jean spared me a millisecond of her time and lifted herself away from the magazine she'd been reading. "What's wrong?"

I turned around to show my roommate the dreadful "uniform" the Professor designed for the team. Yellow and blue, this drab and bland mass of material topped itself off with what seemed like a ski mask. And the best part? The little "X" on the belt buckle. That's right, an "X," as if dressing up as a cross between bank robbers and roller-skating waitresses wouldn't draw enough attention, Charles Freakin' Xavier had to make the lot of us look like we bought our clothes at the Manson Family garage sale.

"I will not be seen with this on my body," I said, my face hot with embarrassment, frustration, and anger. "This looks more like a clown outfit than anything else, and then fighting in it? Dodging bullets, leaping over incoming steel girders, and battling the Brotherhood in this? Since when was a hot, unwieldy body suit a good idea to scamper around in, especially in the New York summer?"

"You put it like-"

"And the mask!" I continued, cutting her off and not feeling bad because I was on a roll, "Is something this flimsy suppose to hide our secret identity? Look at it! Holes, holes, holes, holes everywhere. The only people not able to identify us would be the deaf and dumb!"

"Emma, it's really not that bad, and besides, all of us have to wear it so-"

And then an iced up Bobby Drake walked into the mansion living room with nothing but boots and briefs. "Why hello, ladies. Check out Doctor Funkitron's newest threads."

The way he pointed to his groin got a bemused chuckle from Jean. As for myself, I hurled the mustard themed bandit outfit at him and stomped out the door.

"If the popsicle gets to run around in his Speedos, then I'll get to do it in a corset!"

"Whoa, the love doctor has some input on THIS subject matter."

"Shut it, Bobby!" To prove my point, I pulsed his mind with a shot of psychic energy, enough to cause a stabbing headache for a few seconds. The satisfying scream of pure mental anguish brought me a smile an instant before the Professor's disembodied voice broke up my fun.

_"Emma, we need to have another conversation about your use of telepathy."_

_"Great timing, Professor, because we also need to talk about that dreadful uniform you gave us."_

* * *

I put a hand on my hip and straightened my back. "How do I look?" 

"Good."

"Liar," I grinned. Jean's shocked expression hadn't worn down yet and I could see she was responding out of politeness, not honesty. I puckered my lips at our room's full-length mirror and preened just enough to show off my derriere.

The showboating snapped her out of her daze, long enough for her let go that sigh of disgust she'd been desperately holding back.

Ah ha! "I heard that. Caught you red handed."

At least she had the wherewithal to look confused. "I don't know what you're talking about, Emma."

"You know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that little breath you puff out when you don't want to offend someone. I'm talking about the way you roll your eyes when you've been caught telling a lie. So?" I asked as I adjusted the tight corset, "What pushed it over the edge? The knee high boots? The leather gloves? The cape?"

"It's blindingly white." She paused to look at me again. "That and it tells the world that you regularly shave yourself down there."

Shave myself down there? I held her gaze and seductively waggled my hips over to her. We were about the same height, she and I, so maintaining eye contact wasn't just easy, it was almost unavoidable. I got close enough smell the light waft of unidentifiable perfume she dabbed on herself. I got close enough to admire every strand of her hair. I got close enough to swim past her private barriers and wade into the vastness that was distinctly Jean Grey, my roommate, my fellow X-Woman, my best friend.

And sometimes, for just a short while in moments of weakness, I wished for her to be more.

Which was why I clasped her hand in my own and gently brought it to my unclothed inner thigh. "Silky smooth," I purred, making no secret that I enjoyed her fingers against my sensitive skin, "It's the same further up too. Want to find out for yourself?"

I imagined her nodding, cheeks flushed and chest tight. I imagined her fighting past my flimsy garment and oh-so-furtively grazing my sex. I imagined her lips on my neck, nipping at my skin and marking me, making me hers. I imagined us tossing around in her bed, her hands fumbling against the knots on the back of my corset while I sucked on her nipples. I imagined how she'd use her telekinesis in ways the Professor never envisioned, satisfying me like no one else could.

I'd tell her how much I loved her, how she had me hook, line, and sinker when she slipped me that terse note back in my old econ class. I'd tell her how much I hated this mansion and all it stood for, how I stayed just to be with her. I'd tell her how she's been the only person in my life to not use me, to ask for my friendship and never expect anything in return.

I imagined her stroking my chin, tears in her eyes and that brightening smile threatening to break through. I imagined her silencing me with a kiss, her muted affections bleeding into my mind like a waterfall. I imagined her saying how much she loved me, how she secretly pined for me, how her eyes lingered on me whenever I walked out the door, how she always felt whole around me.

Then reality destroyed my fantasies.

Pulling back, Jean went wide eyed in absolute terror. She didn't even wait for me to smile or apologize, instead slamming past me and gliding away like an arrow. As the remnants of her burning touch faded away, I collapsed onto my bed and massaged my suddenly aching forehead.

"Fuck."

* * *

"Jean?" 

She jumped at the voice. HIS voice. "Scott," she breathed, "You startled me."

I'd be startled too if someone suddenly snuck up behind me while I lounged around in the mansion's backyard in the dead of night. Then again, I'd be startled if I looked a little harder across said backyard (past the pool and the plants) and spotted my roommate--who'd just made a sexual advance on me--hiding behind a bush like a... a... spying type person.

"You're looking awfully jumpy tonight."

You're looking awfully jumpy tonight. What a disgusting, unoriginal guy thing to say to a distraught woman. Had Summers been talking to anyone other than Jean, he would've been labeled an opportunistic womanizer for the rest of his nonconvolscent life. Seriously though, "You're looking awfully jumpy tonight?" That was something Bobby would say after five beers or Warren after six.

"I've been... well, it's... I mean, Emma and I..."

The very mention of my name from her mouth rooted me in place. Across the mansion's pool they talked, the night's quiet carrying their voices enough for me to hear them. My conscience protested spying on this encounter, every ounce of it saying that I should walk out there and meet them head on instead of sneaking around. My conscience made me feel bad... for about five seconds. That's when Scott opened his mouth again and my urge to pull his brain from out of his nostrils peaked at an all time high.

"Here," he said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it on her shoulders, "You shouldn't be out here in the cold."

Correction: now my urge to pull his brain from out of his nostrils peaked at an all time high.

Jean accepted his gesture at face value, smiling and muttering a sniffled "Thanks Scott."

And then the man went the extra mile to achieve freaky-guy stalkerdom: he sat down next to her and began surreptitiously (at least to himself) testing her to see if his advances would take. "You said something about you and Emma?"

I almost laughed at Summers' attempt to play the sympathetic listener. If I knew one thing about him from our years together, it's that he was not a listener. He was a man of action, too absorbed in his plans to accept any feedback and too proud to admit when he was wrong or outmatched. Granted the headstrong qualities made him a decent leader capable of making tough, on-the-fly decisions, but the same stubborn hallmarks made him socially inept.

Centering herself, Jean snuggled further into his jacket and restarted her talk with him. "Scott, have you ever been attracted to the wrong person?"

Behind his ruby quartz glasses, his eyes lit up. His shoulders picked up; his face lost a bit of its stony qualities. He wanted Jean--that in itself was no secret--but he always prevented his own advances out of respect for his leadership position and "team chemistry."

Wonder what changed his mind tonight. Maybe Jean's utter vulnerability or maybe his dick finally out dueled his pea-sized brain.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

He knew exactly what she meant--he lived the role--but like I said, Summers wasn't a listener. A listener would've said "Yes" to enhance their show of empathy. A listener wouldn't have been so clinical and detached but, at the same time, so invested in the conversation. All Summers smelled was Jean and he muddled toward her with the suaveness of a high school freshman asking a senior out to a dance.

I could care less about him, but the dagger in my heart twisted when I looked at Jean and realized she wasn't talking about these things to me. Watching her whispering to Scott confirmed how royally I'd messed up. Anyone else, I would've used my powers to erase the memory of twenty minutes ago, but this was Jean.

I couldn't do that to Jean, even if it meant watching her amble into Scott's embrace.

Accepting his puzzlement, she switched tactics to enlighten him. "Do you think close friends should fall in love?"

"Well, I'd like to think that the person you fall in love with is also your friend."

What a brilliant oration. I'd have to remember that one the next time I talked to kindergarteners who took the short bus to school.

"What about the drama though? What happens if you break up? Can you still be friends? What about the other friends? What if they don't approve?"

"There's always risk, Jean. Relationships are like..."

Oh no, here we go.

"... like Danger Room exercises. Each time you go through one, different outcomes will result, sometimes good, sometimes bad. Making it through the simulation isn't the biggest challenge, it's gathering the courage to face it in the first place that defines who we are. I guess I'm saying that you can't control how any relationship will work out, but what you can control is whether or not you choose to pursue it."

Laughter pinballed around in my chest only to be halted by the strangely enthralled expression on Jean's face. "You're right, Scott."

The hell he was!

"Glad I could be of service."

Without warning, he sidled closer to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. She responded by laying her head on his shoulder. They stayed still for en eternity, their eyes cast into the starry sky, Jean so very far away but Scott so very nearby.

I clenched my fist until my nails drew blood. Anger at myself, anger at Scott, anger at Jean festered like a disease. I went too far, and by losing my firm grip on my emotions, I'd set up the love of my life to fall into his clutches. I blamed myself for my stupidity and Scott for his nerdish, unwieldy perseverance.

I tried to blame Jean but couldn't.

My teeth ground together so hard I thought they'd turn to powder. Every second they remained together tore at my essence. A temptation like none other to use my telepathy loomed in the foreground, tempting in its ease and alacrity. With nothing but a thought, they'd be no more and Jean would come back to me like nothing ever happened. I'd be given a second chance. This night would wash away like a bad dream and I'd wake up tomorrow back to where I started this morning.

But where would I stop? If I could violate Jean's mind, what prevented me from going further, from altering the X-Men to anything I saw fit? What prevented me from creating a perfect Jean? What prevented me from abusing my powers and turning into one of those power hungry mutants I swore I wouldn't be?

Jean finally removed her head from Scott's shoulder. "Thanks," she smiled, taking off his jacket as she stood, "I needed that."

He stood with her and pulled her into a soft hug which was more than friendly. Following up the move, he dipped down that slight bit and kissed her on the lips. A few of my arteries threatened to explode, and never in my life had I been closer to mind wiping a person against their will.

Her eyes bulged, surprised. Immediately on contact, she pushed him away. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

Eh?

"I thought we were... weren't you talking about me?"

Yes Jean, weren't you talking about him?

Surprise disintegrated into mortification. Her face went as red as her hair as she cupped her mouth with her hands. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Scott. I wasn't thinking when I was talking to you and I just oh no oh no oh my God I'm sorry."

To his credit, he recovered nicely and even had the aplomb to give a hearty, though quite embarrassed, chuckle. "Kind of jumped the gun, didn't I?"

"No, it's my fault! I was so out of it I didn't realize-"

"Nothing to apologize for, Jean. I assumed too much, and well, you know what they say. 'Assuming makes an ass out of you and me.'"

Bad joke, horribly timed, but it gave him the uneasy retreat he wanted. Both of them laughed a little before he zoomed back into the mansion without his jacket or Jean. And Jean? She just stayed there, Scott's jacket on the ground, her face still pulsating heat against the cold and awkwardness.

The thought hit me with a train's force: she didn't mean Scott.

"You were talking about me."

Second time tonight she got frightened by someone infatuated with her. At the sound of my voice, she whipped her head around, eventually settling on my hiding place after a full second. No use in hiding anymore, so I rose up, back straight and eyes locked onto hers.

Unbound bitterness and rage radiated off of her as she frowned at me and strode toward the mansion.

"Jean!" I shouted, hopping over the foliage, "Wait!" She kept walking, the distance between us lengthening. "I'm sorry about tonight!" Faster she went, bypassing the mansion altogether and heading for the side gate. "I need to know!"

The last one stopped her and I caught up. She spun around, pinning me with her clear green eyes and numbing my body with the hurt on her face.

"What do you need to know, Emma?"

She spoke carefully, each syllable measured and evaluated. This was my Jean, the spitfire with a heart of gold and a mind sharper than a sword. This was the woman who intrigued me with her dangerous wholesomeness, the one who lured me into the X-Men with her promises fulfilled.

I fired the question point blank. "Do you love me?" Interrupting her before she spoke, I continued, "I know I love you. Since that day you walked into my life, I have loved you. Every moment with you made me happy. Every night I went to bed, I smiled because you were close by. There's a million reasons why I love you, but there's only one that counts in my book: I just do. Making you feel me up wasn't the best way to show it, but at least that little act gave me the kick I needed to tell you. I, Emma Grace Frost, love you, Jean Grey, and I need to know if you feel the same."

"I do."

Then she turned and ran.

* * *

**_Two years later at the Four Seasons Restaurant in Manhattan..._**

She brought the champagne up to her mouth mid-giggle. "I was such a fool," she grinned before taking a generous drink.

Couldn't agree any more. "Chasing you down Greymalkin Lane wasn't fun... especially when it started raining."

Not even the playful--though nonetheless still sharp--kick under the table dulled my mood. I sometimes wonder what would've happened if I didn't run after Jean and demanded she talk to me, rejection be damned. My staunchness paid off in the end, but in my mind, I pointed to many instances where I could've given up on her, on us.

I remembered thinking how my deep seated crush on my roommate wasn't worth trudging through the freezing rain while she hurled things at me with her telekinesis. I remembered thinking about the future, asking the question about how everyone else would react and then answering them in very negative ways. I remembered thinking that salvaging our friendship was better than following this destructive path, that while Jean might've felt something for me, she didn't want to accept it and I had no right to force it upon her.

I remembered all of that and my consequent response: fuck it. Nothing risked, nothing gained--that's why Scott didn't end up with Jean. He played it safe and never acted on his attraction to her until I'd entered the picture.

The result? "You have to try the prosciutto wrapped figs. It's like an out of body experience."

Absolutely no complaints.

Jean held my hand tighter. Our powers grew over the years, blossoming at rates which impressed even the Professor. The old man deemed her stable enough to remove the blocks on her telepathy and in a fugue of madness charged me as her tutor. Me, the wild one, the girlfriend, the mean X-Woman who didn't like lots of people and let it be known--I didn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

So tonight, I was suppose to tutoring her on the intricacies of mass mental manipulation, which amounted to making a bunch of people around us feel or perceive something in a certain way. The exercise? Make the stuffy, closed minded patrons of this fine establishment ignore us while we displayed our affections openly.

I justified it as not only a telepathic test but also a social experiment. She had the telepathy, and now, as the official instructor, I had to provide the affections.

Purely as a tool for the activity, mind you.

Instructional purpose drawn upon, I leaned over our small, two person table and exchanged shades of lipstick with her.

_"Distractions can't break your concentration,"_ I noted to her. "_I don't know how many times I've had to hold up a telepathic shield like this while Magneto threw manhole covers at me."_

My tongue lanced out and touched hers while one of my hands brush against her breast. She moaned, but like the good student I knew she was, she maintained our little ruse. In fact, she handled herself well enough to break away, pull my head close, and nip my earlobe.

I shuddered, my body pushing me to drop all pretenses of decency. _"Feisty, aren't we?"_

_"Only because I'm enjoying this lesson,"_ she grinned devilishly as she settled back into her chair.

Still standing, I licked my lips and nodded. "Maybe I should give this teaching thing a try. I kind of like it."

* * *

Sentinels. 

Orbital station.

Right, it was coming back now.

A half dozen of those machines interrupted my date and seperately captured the Professor, Jean, Logan, and myself. Turned out Dr. Steven Lang, technological genius and mutant hater extraordinaire, wanted to test out his latest creation on us X-Men, kind of as a litmus test to see if his babies would stand up to extreme opposition. His base? Said orbital station. His babies? The Sentinels. Obviously, they worked, but the others, along with help from one of the Professor's friend, Dr. Peter Corbeau, came charging to our rescue in a top secret, top notched space ship. Fight, fight, fight, run through orbital station, fight some more, and then nab bad guy.

Which brought me to my current preoccupation.

Smack! "That's for ruining my dress!"

Pow! "That's for kidnapping us!"

Slap! "That's for putting us in test tubes!"

Crunch! "That's for interrupting our date!"

"Emma-"

"Hold on." I rammed this Dr. Steven Lang person's face into the metal wall. "And THAT was for touching Jean!"

"Emma," Jean said again, "He's unconscious."

I dropped the self-proclaimed mutant cleanser so he made a considerable banging noise. Then, I kicked him in the gut. "Barmy, no-good, audacious gnat. The next time you decide to play with your toys, make sure they can get the job done."

For good measure, I jabbed the heel of my sharp boot into his crotch and churned a few times. The rest of the team simply ignored me, most of them used to my antics. Most of them.

"Remind me to stay outta your flamin' way when it's your time o' the month."

Logan--I didn't like him. He cast too many sidelong glances at Jean. He smelled like cheap cigar smoke and growled more often than a rabid dog. I understood why the Professor wanted to expand the team and bring in new blood, but something about Logan set me off. On some level, I viewed him as competition, competition for my status on the X-Men, competition for my shady moral reputation, and potential competition for Jean's love.

Don't get me wrong, I knew Jean would never cheat on me, but at the same time, I never took her for granted. Everyday I pined for her as if I'd lose her, as if I spent my whole life reliving the chase after her on that cold, rainy night two years ago. So I ended up a bit possessive, but anyone else would be too if they had the heart of the world's most beautiful and kindest woman.

Logan knew my possessive streak and stalked my borders like his namesake wolverine. Jean tried to play mediator between us, convinced we could coexist despite my misgivings and his minor, probing transgressions.

It didn't work.

"One mighty nasty twitch ya got there, Frosty."

"It's because I have to stare at your hairy, shirtless chest."

Then Scott chimed in. "Enough, the two of you. The orbital station is coming apart and we can't waste another second here."

"It's no use," said Corbeau, opening his mouth for the first time, "A stray shot from one of the Sentinels penetrated the cockpit's radiation shields. Even if we do patch it up, there's no way the weakened material will be able to stand up to the solar flares going on outside!"

The collective spirit sank. Ideas started floating around, but in the end, not even Colossus' organic steel frame could endure the sun's intense rays. Options running out, Scott and Storm passed the time by welding up the ship's torn hull; the Professor, Hank, and Corbeau debated on the best course of action. Kurt, Sean, Logan, and Peter Rasputin talked amongst themselves.

I held Jean.

_"Emma, you're shaking."_

_"Am not."_

_"Are too and you only do that when you're scared."_

_"I'm not scared and I'm not shaking."_

A fire sparked behind her eyes, one which frightened me. She only got that steely determination whenever we were up against impossible odds. More often than not, her ideas put her in grave danger and once she got the drive in her thick skull, she'd never let it go.

"Professor," she called out, extracting herself from my arms, "I know how we can get out of here."

All eyes glued onto her as my heart sped up. Silently, the eggheaded trio urged her to continue.

"Only the cockpit is damaged, right? The rest of the ship should be able to survive the trip back to earth. I can use my telekinesis to hold off the radiation while Dr. Corbeau flies us."

Even the Professor thought the plan dubious. "Jean, while I have supreme confidence in your abilities, these are powerful solar rays you're up against. Even the most gifted telekinetic will have difficulties maintaining a shield of that magnitude for a short period of time, much less for the duration of our flight."

"It's our only choice, Professor. No one else can shield the ship or survive in the cockpit." She turned to Corbeau. "How long is the trip back?"

"Thirty minutes," he answered, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. "That's an awful lot of radiation to hold off..."

Idiotic coward. I stepped forward and offered my own twist on the scenario. "I'll pilot the ship."

"Come again, Emma?" asked the Professor.

"I can telepathically imprint how to fly the ship from Dr. Corbeau. While I don't have telekinesis, I can ease the strain on Jean and funnel her exhaustion into me. It's a better alternative than letting her do this alone."

I might've had a possessive streak when it came to Jean, but Jean had a protective streak when it came to me. I was hers--her best friend, her lover--and she loathed for anything wicked to happen to me, something like her now passed on childhood friend, Annie Richardson.

Upon hearing my suggestion, she went on the offensive. "I can handle it, Emma."

"You don't know," I countered. "You've never had to hold off this kind of thing in your life. Pyro's flames are nothing compared to solar rays."

"You could die."

"And so could the rest of us if you fail. This isn't about selfish pride, it's about survival."

Who was I kidding? It was about selfish pride. If we were going to die, I needed to die by Jean's side. The way I figured it, if the solar radiation made it through, it'd destroy the cockpit first and we'd be gone in a burst light at the same time. I could've lied and said we'd make it, but my intuition told me I'd be tasting the sun soon.

My intuition was never wrong.

Took more convincing, but in the end, Jean relented. She wasn't happy, but she let me sit by her, one hand on the controls and another enfolded in hers. As the Sentinel orbital station broke up, I aimed Corbeau's ship straight at Jamaica Bay next to JFK airport. Meanwhile, metal rumbled and moaned, the cockpit bending, crushing, and melting thanks to the g-forces and heat.

For the first five minutes, Jean refused my help. Her nails buried themselves in my knuckles but I willed myself to shut up about it. By ten minutes, I forcibly moved into her mind and piled her pain onto myself. She rewarded me with a grateful look but I couldn't smile back.

My nose bled. Then my ears. The control panel fizzled with a burst of electricity; smoke rose from the circuit boards. Our hands squeezed so hard together that I wasn't sure if we'd be able to untangle ourselves.

Twenty minutes.

"Jean..."

I spared her a glance to confirm the feelings in my mind. She looked like me, only worse. Her back arched and her body hummed with power, but it wasn't enough. I tried to ease her suffering, but even that wasn't enough. She relaxed, and for a second, a great sadness passed into my mind.

"It's too much," she whispered, spent beyond imagination. "Twenty two minutes. I can't..."

And then window shattered. I heard her seatbelt unbuckle as she threw herself against me.

"EMMA!"

Silence.

* * *

_"What truly remarkable life forms."_

I couldn't see. I was pretty sure I couldn't hear. I was probably dead too, so why did I hear a voice?

_"Both of you have earned life. Do you accept?"_

Both of us? Jean? _"Jean?"_

_"Emma? Where are you?"_

_"I can't see. I can't move either."_

The voice chuckled. _"Of course you can't: both of you are dying. I've watched your journey and have decided to grant you a second chance... for a price."_

_"What kind of price?"_

_"Emma, we have to save the others!"_

_"You will channel my essence and do what needs to be done in your world."_

_"And that would be?"_

_"No, Emma, stop. If you can help us save the others, we accept."_

_"The Phoenix is capable of anything. As always, great power comes with great responsibility, and I believe the both of you are capable of meeting the challenges ahead."_

_"Wait, but what price? Jean, I am not pleased at this mysterious arrangement. Jean? Hello? Anyone?"

* * *

_

**_One year later... the final stroke..._**

It came with its fair share of warnings.

Jean had been acting strange but I couldn't find out why. Anytime I asked her about it, she clammed up, shrinking into herself for days. More and more often she resorted to direct means of dealing with our enemies. Direct meaning expedient and heavy handed, which meant my way of dealing with our enemies. Storm and the Professor thought I'd become too much of a negative influence on Jean and kindly asked that I'd take a month off.

Apparently, Jean liked the idea as much as I did and made a big fuss about it.

The Jean I knew wouldn't have done that. The Jean I knew would've talked to the Professor behind closed doors. The Jean I knew would've deflected questions and kept her protests quiet. When she aired her grievances in front of the entire team (and called Storm a "narrow-minded harpy"), my initial reaction was pride. I thought she'd finally honed the biting edge she always had but never used. I thought she was just being put off by everyone coming down on us.

I was right and wrong.

Turned out Mastermind, one of the new recruits of the Hellfire Club, had gotten to Jean and changed her in ways not even the Phoenix did. He manipulated her, made her see and feel things that weren't there. He seduced her with his powers and corrupted her for his own uses. Luckily, she fought back and won. I didn't put it together until she took the bastard's consciousness and merged it with the cosmos.

For that split second as she tapped into the Phoenix Force, I felt an unnatural, hungry darkness in her. This darkness tainted her mind and threatened to spill into me, into the part of the Phoenix which was me. She tried her best to hold herself back, but when I offered my help, she snapped.

She ripped Blackbird down the middle with her powers. Her green and gold costume turned into red and gold. She said the woman we knew was dead, replaced by the awesome force that was the Phoenix.

I reminded her who she was talking to, that as much as she claimed to be the Phoenix, I also held the same title, but the sudden blast of telepathic energy stunned me. She used the time to fling the others into the ocean below before rocketing into the atmosphere, demanding more energy to feed her insatiable hunger.

Her hunt filtered across our psychic rapport, urging me to follow her, to join her and do the same. The power combined with her alluring voice sounded so tempting, but this wasn't her. This wasn't Jean, the woman I loved, the woman who played the angel to my devil, the sweet woman who wanted nothing more than peace. This was a twisted Jean, and in her state of madness and her control of the Phoenix, she was liable to do things she'd regret later.

Ignoring the Professor's command to regroup, I hurled into space after her. She had a head start on me and all I could do was follow in her wake of destruction, pieces of Shi'Ar ships brushing past me as I raced to catch up.

Brought back memories of that cold, rainy night on Greymalkin Lane. A lot of ways, this wasn't any different: an angry Jean, a void of darkness between us, and me chasing after her. Why? Because I loved her, because I knew she'd do something stupid if I didn't stop her. No matter what she did I'd always accept her, but she didn't treat herself the same way. She held herself accountable for all her actions no matter what, and sometimes, that wealth of honor came back to bite her in ways she couldn't imagine.

Didn't take a genius to know cosmic power plus cosmic anger equaled cosmic destruction.

Cosmic destruction was about to take place as I found her about to consume a sun. That's right, a sun, a star which supported a fistful of planets which in turn supported billions of life forms. The sun was small, but however small its was, immense power still radiated off of it. I was tempted to taste just a little bit of it, just to see how it would make me feel.

Jean sensed my curiosity and waited for me. In place of her beautiful green eyes were spotless orbs of pure white. In place of her kind expression was one filled with primordial need and a means to satisfy it. She just floated and waited, waited till I got close enough to touch her.

The Phoenix in her manifested, enfolding my vision and bearing down on me.

"My other half," she snickered. A tendril of fire extended from her hand and gently wrapped around my waist. "You felt my pull, didn't you? You know what I want and you want a part of it too."

This wasn't Jean. This wasn't my Jean. I tore the fiery appendage into nothing and let my command of the Phoenix loose, the sight matching her impressive countenance. "Get away from there, Jean. For your own sanity, you have to stop."

"Don't call me Jean!" She burst through my defenses and grabbed my neck in one hand. "I am the Phoenix, not that fragile mortal. I am life itself!"

I broke her grasp and pushed her away from the sun with a telekinetic strike. "You're Jean, nothing more, nothing less."

"Fool! You're no more Emma Frost than I am Jean Grey. We are one in the same, you and I. We are the Phoenix separated and molded into these pitiful shapes! We are one given two bodies!"

"Is that your way of saying you love me too?"

"QUIET!" she shrieked, throwing herself at me. I dodged out of the way, but I realized too late that by dodging, I gave her a clear shot at diving into the sun's corona. The two of us streaked into the ball of molten lava, shielded by the Phoenix's awesome power. Already I felt her growing stronger as she sucked the energies around her like a vampire. Already I felt the temptation to imbibe.

I needed power to match her, didn't I? I needed to be on a the same level as her or else there'd be no hope. What was a solar system or two if their sacrifices saved the entire universe? There were times when the greater good took precedence over the good of a few and this was one of those times.

With that thought in my head, I felt her body press against mine. "You know the feeling. You remember it. We are the Phoenix. Creation, as well as destruction, is our purpose. Why do you hold onto to your earthly ties so hard? Let them go and we can be together once again."

She slipped her arm around my back and pulled me close. "The Phoenix will be whole," she whispered into my ear.

I melted into her, the seductive lure of completion and oblivion clouding my judgment. Our beings fused, her superior to my inferior. She took back what was hers to better protect herself and it felt so right. We'd be whole again, the Phoenix, the force which drove creation. I'd leave behind my troublesome world which was more of a bother than it was worth. I'd leave it to its doom and be safe and warm here.

This power... this hunger... this was me. This ability to take what I wanted was what I lacked on earth. This was why I hated the Professor's tight rein on the X-Men. This was why I always thought The Cause never suited me.

I craved control. I craved power. I craved possession, possession of my friends, possession of my enemies, possession of the world, possession of Jean.

Jean.

My eyes opened and beneath Mastermind's layers of damnable handiwork, I saw her looking back at me. I stayed in the X-Men for Jean. I flew light-years to help her. I craved power and control, but above all else, I craved her the most. She was why I forsook everything in my life, and whereas someone else might've been bitter at opportunities missed, I considered our union an unbeatable deal.

Love did strange things to people. Wonder what would've happened if it hadn't come into my life. Honestly, I probably would've joined the Hellfire Club and tried to take over the world, but that really wasn't the point right now.

The point was Jean needed me.

My hands reached up and found her temples. I needed an area to focus my telepathy; I needed to undo the damage Mastermind did. Expelling myself, I left go of my physical form and entered the minefield that was Jean's powerful consciousness. Every step of the way something in her fought me, at first outraged that I'd violate her like this, then scared at what I tried to uncover.

I saw her moments of weakness in Mastermind's well-plotted dreams. I saw her questioning her existence, wondering if the modern day was real or fiction. I saw her slowly cornered in her mind as she grew fonder and fonder of her seducer, Mastermind, or as he called himself here, Jason Wyngarde. I saw her succumb in her dreams, helped along by his tricks. I saw her blur fantasy and reality until she couldn't tell the difference anymore.

In the end, I saw her beat him, but unfortunately, the damage had already been done. Mastermind awakened the Phoenix's consciousness, and infuriated by the subterfuge, it demanded vengeance. The Phoenix overpowered Jean, and now, my love was a prisoner in her own mind.

With my half of Phoenix's help, freeing her was elementary.

Her green eyes returned. Her face softened. We pulled ourselves out of each other, out of the blinding sun, visions of enormous birds rising from the fires of birth. She held me tighter, hoping and praying that I was real. Her red and gold costume remained, but I didn't complain.

"You look good," I smiled, tilting her chin up. "Now we don't look like we shop at the same place for our uniforms."

She broke out in the heartiest laugh I'd ever heard from her. As wrecklessly and joyously as ever, she kissed me like my Jean kissed me, and at that moment, I knew everything in this particular universe was right. I pitied other versions of myself who didn't have this wonderful feeling to hold onto, those who didn't know how liberating it was to exist for another.

I pitied them and rejoiced for myself. Out in the middle of another galaxy, surrounded by nothing but each other, and just pulled from clutches of a terrible tragedy, Jean and I shared a moment of peace together. Both of us knew that in a short while, we'd have to make our way back home and resume the life of an X-Man. There were villains to fight, mutants to protect, and the Hellfire Club to take apart one member at a time.

The Hellfire Club...

* * *

"Awe-inspiring, isn't it?" 

The howl of thinned, gnashing winds muted his response. From reading his lips, I gathered it went along the lines of "Gaaaaah! Noooo!" but I could've been wrong. Communication at this elevation came at a premium.

My telekinetic shield picked me up and floated me within inches of his upside-down, unsuspended-but-not-falling self. Sebastian Shaw--millionaire, mutant, and Black King--ceased his desperate rumblings as I dispassionately appraised him.

"Do you want to know where you are?"

He twitched and wriggled, even took a swipe at me. Laughable. "What do you want, X-Man?"

"Answering a question with a question." I shook my head and pinched in his cheek. "That's so discourteous, Sebastian. Answer my first, please? I did ask before you."

Another swipe. "Unhand me!"

"My, what a wonderful idea."

I telekinetically stretched his arms out. At first he seemed puzzled, then, as I exerted more pull to either side of his appendages, he got the idea. "Stop," he commanded, "I said... I said..."

"You said, 'Unhand me.' I'm just following your request."

With an audible pop, his right arm popped out of its shoulder joint. He screamed.

"Careful what you wish for, Sebastian. You might get what you ask for."

Pop went his left arm. His screams doubled their intensity.

"And I'm not finished either. Next'll be your elbows, then your wrist, then every single little joint on your fingers. Afterwards, I'll just rip your arms clean off. Won't that be fun?"

"Stop! I beg you! Please!"

"Then answer my question. Do you want to know where you are?"

"Yes," he muttered, pride hurting but body urging him to cooperate in spite of it.

"Well, too bad."

He didn't even get a chance to look confused before I released my telekinetic hold on him. Down to the great below he fell, past the clouds, snow, and jagged mountain sides. At least the air got more breathable the further down to the ground he got.

Funny how Mount Everest worked like that.

"Say hi to the rest of the Inner Circle for me."

Time to go home: Emma was waiting.

* * *

- The next tale awaits... 


	5. What If Emma Left Home?

Notes: And you thought this series was dead! Another standalone arc, separate from the previous chapter. Watch your step for some of the more mature themes here if you're the sensitive type. This particular offering explores Emma's fate if she left home at a very young age.

* * *

_**What If Emma...**_

by Yimmy

Chapter 5: What If Emma Left Home?

* * *

"Irene, why are we here?" 

The precognitive woman hushed her lover and pointed to one of the many houses. To be sure, house wasn't the word to describe the structures on this particular street--castles about covered it. Every dwelling here sprawled on for ages, each boasting certain eccentric and undoubtedly expensive themes. The one over there had four spires extending up six stories; the one down the street looked like a Miami beach house. Helicopters, extravagant gardens, luxury cars, and strange architecture melted into a numbing vision of indulgence.

And the estate Irene pointed to embodied all these qualities in some way, shape, or form. Seemed like the place was the big brother house, setting the precedence for everyone else to follow. Bigger than the other big mansions, more nouveaux chic than the other nouveaux chic, and more intimidating than the other intimidating properties, it screamed of a commanding, arrogant presence.

Everything else was just an echo of its cries.

"So it's big," Mystique dryly noted as she folded her arms, "If you want one-"

The ominous double doors shot open as if blown apart by cannons. A brown haired girl stumbled out of the palatial estate, close behind her an irate man, a very stressed woman, and two other smug looking girls. The scene jumpstarted Mystique's lazy nerves causing her to open the car window a crack and use her superior hearing to eavesdrop on the family.

"-boy was a freak of nature and deserved whatever crumbs I fed him! How dare you question me, Emma?!"

The singled out girl met the man's furious eyes and fired back. "Christian is not a freak!"

"Talking back," the red-faced man spat, boiling over like a screaming hot kettle, "Who taught you that? Who taught you to attack me? Was it that ingrate you want to join? Is that what you want, Emma? Do you want to go to the insane asylum with that... that... thing I used to call a son?"

The stressed out woman gripped the man's coat sleeve. "Winston, please, we don't have to make a fuss."

"Hands off of me when I'm teaching my child!" His arm yanked out of the woman's grasp and rose up to backhand her.

Little Emma gasped. "Mama!"

Too late. The slap reverberated into the streets and felled the woman without effort. The other girls shrank aside, neither offering the woman (whom Mystique presumed to their mother too) any comfort or solace.

Little Emma rushed her much bigger father and repeatedly beat her tiny fists against his lower body. "You hurt Mama again! You said you wouldn't!"

Meanwhile in the car, "Christ," breathed Mystique, "she can't be more than ten."

"Eight," Irene corrected, "but she's seen things that would make one four times her age cringe."

Frowning at his daughter, the man known as Winston put his sweaty palm on her face and shoved her away, tumbling her to her bottom. "If you want to live under my roof, eat my food, and use my money, you will listen to what I say. You will hold your tongue unless I require an answer from you. You will learn what it means to a be disciplined child of the Frost clan."

Whereas another girl would've balked at the sight of her angry father looming over her panic stricken mother, Emma Grace Frost hopped to her feet and prepared to charge again. And again the elder Frost laid her out, this time with a powerful slap.

"The stupid girl's going to get herself killed." Unable to take any more, Mystique removed her seatbelt and-

Irene stopped her. "Is this what you really want, Raven?"

What she really wanted? What did this have to do with-

The memory, cloaked by furtive giggles and pillow talk, came back. Last night. Irene was talking about last night, talking about that hazy moment as they readied to sleep. The subject came up then, a little what if between lovers: another child. Could they take on another child? Another mutant who had nowhere else to go? Certainly the world didn't lack for orphans, especially mutants. Would the child be he or she? Older or younger? Rogue was such a darling thing, how would she take it?

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Mystique peered at Irene like she'd gone stark raving mad. "You can't be bringing this up right now. Another kid? Another stray? So soon? You've got to be joking."

"I can and I have. You said you wanted another child, someone who our little Rogue could look up to."

"Sheesh, I was being hypothetical! Can't we just get her out of here and be done with it?"

"She has nowhere else to go, Raven. We can either leave her here where she'll endure for another ten years or we can intervene and spare her of the pain."

The metamorph sighed. This was another one of those destiny defining events, wasn't it? The choice wouldn't have been given if it wasn't. Yet the decision wasn't one to make alone.

"What do you want, Irene?"

"I want you to follow your heart. I won't always be here to hold your hand."

"Don't talk like that."

"I've spoiled you," the seemingly older woman smiled. "In your heart, you know someday I won't be watching the threads of destiny for you. I want to know that when that day comes, you'll be true to yourself."

"So is this a test?"

"If you want it to be."

Goddamn, so it was a test. Mystique looked out the window again: the father had the little girl by the wrists and was wrestling her back into the mansion. Servants finally scurried out to usher the rest of the family inside before any more attention came. Undoubtedly, no one would ever hear about this incident, the blemish paved over by money and influence. To the world, this castle would be made of dreams; inside, a innocent soul would suffer silently. She felt the door on this fate closing, just like the fancy double doors engulfing the brown haired girl named Emma.

Leave her. That translated to a decade or so of psychological and physical cruelty. Save her. That translated into another child, another mouth to feed, another person to love, another life to look after. Did she have room in her heart to love another? Could she love this girl, this eight year old who'd remember her home, fully? Perhaps, perhaps not, but while she and Irene already had their hands full with Rogue, the child raising experience, for all its trials, fulfilled something in both women and made them whole. They'd loved and lived for ages, but only when they loved and lived for another did they find true happiness.

Another one wouldn't be so bad.

That and Mystique had a soft spot for children, especially those helpless against their unloving parents.

Her skin rippled, glossy flesh becoming dull like dark cloth. Stark yellow eyes deepened till they became brown. Her face and hands turned white like a "normal" person's. A police officer's hat hid most of her long, red hair, now magically tied into a ponytail. A shiny badge glistened on her chest declaring her a member of Boston's finest.

"How do I look?"

Irene's smile widened. "Perfect, like always."

* * *

"Wut's yer name?" 

Emma didn't want to talk to this girl. Actually, Emma didn't want to talk, period. This morning, people in white came by and took Christian away. Christian, her big brother, the person she loved most in the world, the only person who protected her from Daddy's wrath--they put him in a straitjacket, dragged him out of his room while Daddy called him a fag, and took him away.

Christian...

All Emma wanted to do was cry, but then Adrienne wouldn't leave her alone. She kept on saying stuff like "Where's Christian now, Emma?" and "Can't hide behind him anymore" and "They'll cut out a part of his brain. I hear that's how gay people get better." Next thing she knew, she socked Adrienne in the mouth. Of course, her sister went running to Daddy, and well, Emma kept swinging until the nice policewoman came by.

After all, that's what Daddy did when Mama wasn't listening to him.

The woman said Daddy couldn't hit her, told him he'd be arrested and she'd be taken from him. Daddy said "Good riddance" and slammed the door in the policewoman's face. The nice policewoman talked to Emma, asked her if she had somewhere else to go and if she wanted to go back to her family.

After what happened to Christian, after watching Christian kick and scream his way out the door, Emma didn't want to be anywhere near her so-called family.

She just wanted to cry.

"Hey, ah ask'd ya sumthin-"

"Rogue, don't bother her."

"But Irene!"

"Don't Irene me, young lady. Leave her alone."

"Why she here?"

The door closed and the voices got further away.

The nice policewoman brought her to this place, asked a lot of questions, asked her if she minded staying with some nice people for the time being. Emma didn't care because she wanted to be left alone, so she nodded and said nice people were good.

So far, that old lady and the little mouthy girl were nice. Well, nicer than Daddy. These people didn't shout at her or hit her. These people didn't force her to do anything. They asked if she wanted food and water, if she wanted to swim in the pool out back or go get some ice-cream or play around at the nearby park. All of those things sounded like wonderful ideas, things Emma saw her classmates do as she passed them by in the back of Daddy's Bentley but never got to experience for herself. Any other time she'd be filled with glee, but today, she could only see the tears on Christian's face and bruise on her own mama's cheek.

Emma pulled her "My Little Pony" jacket tighter and cried till she fell asleep.

* * *

The family of three hovered about the circular dinner table set for four. Raven raced around with a piping hot dish of tuna casserole while Irene wafted away to put the finishing touches on the vegetables. Rogue, bubbling with the usual five year old's impatience and matching mouth, sat on the booster chair she didn't really need anymore. 

"Mama?"

The blue metamorph playfully squeezed her adopted daughter's nose as she put down tonight's main course. "Yes?"

"Who's that girl?"

Before she could answer, Irene called out from the kitchen, "Raven dear, could you get another roll of paper towels for me?"

Caught between daughter and lover, Mystique said, "One second," to her daughter and sprinted away to get the requested item.

Abandoned, Rogue shrugged and tried to sneak a bite of the casserole, which for a five year old was much harder than it sounded. Equipped with her shortened, kiddy fork and chubby arms, the girl stood on her chair and stretched to the center of the table.

Close, but no good.

She discarded the kiddy fork and grabbed one of the grown-ups' forks. Closer, but still no cigar. Carefully surveying her surroundings, Rogue climbed up onto the table and-

"What are you doing?"

-froze solid like a statue. She didn't recognize the voice, but then again, it could've been Mama playing her usual jokes. Rogue slowly turned around and saw the girl. That's right, THE girl who Mama and Irene brought home. The girl with her puffy eyes and rosy red cheeks.

And she had on the best "My Little Pony" jacket ever. It had pink, glitter, ponies, and oooooh, what else could a girl ask for? Before she could help it, Rogue blurted, "Ah like yer jacket."

The girl beamed with a certain smug pride but wouldn't be swayed for her earlier question. "What are you doing?"

As if the answer took a lot of guessing. "Eatin', wut else?"

"You eat standing on the table?" the girl asked distastefully.

"No ah don't!"

"Yes you do, you're standing on the table right now."

"NO!"

"Yes!"

With tears in her eyes, Rogue yelled at the top of her tiny lungs, "Mama!"

Never able to resist her young daughter's call, a very harried and very blue Mystique hustled back into the dining room. Before the woman could placate the situation, a child's lightning reflexes cut her off.

Emma let out an impressive "MONSTER!"

* * *

"Irene, this isn't working." 

They lay in their bed enjoying the breeze fluttering into the window and the naked presence of each other. Under satisfaction's afterglow, uneasiness gripped Mystique. Despite being next to the love of her life, she couldn't will away the little girl's terrified face.

The girl screamed "monster." She either didn't know any better or she knew too well--Mystique couldn't decide on either.

"She doesn't belong here."

Little girls weren't meant to be traumatized or taken away from their parents. Little girls were suppose to be lights of the world, not hapless victims. This house had two little girls, but Rogue differed from Emma. Rogue literally had nowhere to go; Rogue was young. Mystique's own abnormalities proved easy to swallow for an impressionable child. Emma... Emma was too mature. Emma would have a hard time thinking of these strange people as family. She held onto her own family as a good little girl should and needed to go home.

Home wasn't safe but it was the only home she knew.

"Irene, are you listening to me? This isn't right."

The woman known as Destiny smiled, her eyes unseeing but her mind seeing all. On cue, the screams of one little girl--not Rogue--echoed through the modest house. Raven started but Irene put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Silent thoughts passed through them, years of togetherness honing their emotional perception of each other to supernatural sharpness. Stopped, the metamorph leaned back into her pillow and allowed her lover to amble out of bed alone. With practiced ease, Irene slung on her robe and put on her customary glasses.

"Sleep, Raven. I won't be back tonight."

Sleep? "Not without you."

Irene smiled, blew Raven a kiss, and glided to the door. "You say the sweetest things."

* * *

"No, Daddy, don't... NO! Mama, don't hit me too... no, I'll be good, I'll be good-" 

What did being selfish mean? Being true to oneself? Putting one's own welfare above everyone else's? Was a person still being selfish when the perceived selfish act helped so many others, especially loved ones?

"Please... stop... STOP!"

Irene wrestled with these questions as she sat down on Emma's bed. Such a wondrous child this one, one with tomorrows of all sorts tied to her. From this body radiated unfathomable futures and the potential to achieve great--or terrible--things. Irene had never seen anyone like this, so full of destiny but fate so elusive. Emma was like Raven that way, the wild card who's actions dictated the actions of others. They were a rare breed who didn't die until their time, never relented if they ever found their purpose, and always played pivotal roles in a better existence.

Hence, Emma was important. Emma was also eight years old. Emma was also scared. For all her grand designs and never clear premonitions, Irene couldn't see this fragile life as a tool, but yet she couldn't distance herself from this girl's destiny. So much depended on this young one's choices... so much of Raven and Rogue's happiness depended on her...

And their happiness made Irene herself happy. Problem was, would those things make little Emma happy? Was it right to take this child and make her into a comfort for her family? Was it right to manipulate someone this young? Was Irene doing this for Emma's or Raven's sake? Would the future turn out as seen or would a darker world take over?

Questions, questions, questions, and until the future became the past, there'd be no definitive answers.

Emma's blue eyes shot open as a particularly heartrending scene shattered her dreams. The darkened room rushed back into her vision, that and the face of the old woman named Irene.

"Easy, child, you were having a nightmare."

How long had she been sitting there? Emma wiped her tears away with the snuggly blanket and turned her back on the lady. The lady might've looked, sounded, and acted like Mama, but she wasn't Mama.

Mama never came to her bedside.

Mama never knew when she had a nightmare.

Mama never made her feel in control, like she had a choice in talking, crying, or ignoring the world.

Mama was Mama, good or bad. This lady wasn't Mama, but for the moment, seated mere inches away and smiling a comforting smile, she was better than Mama. She needed Mama now and this lady would be a fine substitution.

Wrapped in her cocoon of sheets, Emma whispered without moving, "I thought Daddy was hitting me again."

Against her will, the woman flinched. No matter how many times she'd seen this terrible thing happen in her life and in her visions, the idea of a guardian attacking their flesh and blood sent chills up her spine. The image hit far too close to home.

"Do you need a hug?"

A hug sounded good. It was something Christian did when Emma cried, and when things were really bad, he hugged her till the sun came up.

Christian...

The thought of him pushed Emma over the verge of tears. Under duress, she reached out for her only sanctuary and found herself clutching this old woman. Bony fingers stroked brown hair while soothing sounds those good mommies made on television enveloped her. The hurt didn't go away, the tears weren't drying up, but then again, pains like these didn't disappear in one day.

Irene kissed the top of Emma's head and let her maternal instincts take over.

One thought echoed between both of them: whatever tomorrow brought, it had to be better than today.

* * *

While years later she'd deny it with every fiber in her body, Rogue hated Emma then, hated how the older girl waltzed into her life and took her parents' attention. Mama always made a point to say she and Irene didn't love her any less but it sure didn't feel that way. Why, in a matter of days, Emma got a new bed, a snazzy wardrobe full of cool clothes those kids on Full House wore, a new desk with shelves and drawers, a bunch of toys to die for (Barbies, a bicycle, and that new video game console, Nintendo!), and the ultimate prize, a television in her room. 

If it was any consolation, Emma hated life. Against her will, her heart ached to be with her family. Yes, these people here were nice, mouthy pre-schooler and freaky, blue woman included, but she knew only one way, the Frost Way. Amazingly, she missed Adrienne's snarky comments and Cordelia's prying eyes; she missed their company, not because she liked them but because she was used to them. The undeniable fact? Family was family, and when it came to the Frost family, they were just a different breed. Never before had Emma needed to clean up after herself (that was for the servants) or been asked what she wanted to do (Daddy had everything planned out for her). This house, these people, they offered the life those kids lived on television, complete with friends, playgrounds, and ice-cream trucks.

It was a dream come true, but the little girl couldn't overcome her uneasiness.

Winston Frost trained his daughter to be vigilant and untrusting. Though the teachings hadn't quite wrapped their talons around her soul, Emma waited for the other proverbial shoe to drop. When would these people become mean? When would they start hitting her? Why did they take her in? Because the policewoman said so? At least back home, she knew never to trust anyone except Christian, but here, she wanted to trust.

Wanted to but couldn't.

Yet, people changed like the seasons. Days moved into weeks, months, even years. Jem became cooler than My Little Pony. A computer phased into the home, its off-white color clashing with everything else in every room. Big, frizzy hair went out of style.

The family adjusted to each other.

Raven held Rogue close to chase away the feelings of inadequacy. She told the girl that good parents loved all their children the same, that Emma would never replace her. Of course, Rogue wanted to know why. Why did she have to accept Emma as a big sister? Why did her mama want another child? With patience few knew she had, Raven explained how some unlucky girls had bad parents. Bad parents came in many different forms, but the bottom line was unhappiness. Bad parents didn't make their daughters feel good about themselves; bad parents had no time for their children.

Emma was one of those unlucky girls.

"Mama, wut can we do ta help?"

"Be nice to her. Share. Love. It's all she needs."

While Raven comforted Rogue, Irene stood by Emma. Well, being precognitive, Irene didn't exactly have to follow the girl every waking second, but she knew. She knew when Emma felt lonely, scared, or angry. She knew what to do to make the hurting stop. Comfort without sacrificing dignity--Emma liked Irene because the older woman just knew like those supposedly good moms did.

All of a sudden, life didn't seem so bad. The blue lady (Emma still had trouble thinking of her as anything but that even though she wasn't always blue) named Raven acted nice, if only a bit put off by Emma's tepid dread. Rogue started to come around especially when the Nintendo was involved. School here wasn't like Boston: the other students treated her like anyone else, not Winston Frost's "princess." Nightmares came less often with Irene around. Hugs and talks changed from awkward to acceptable. Routines settled in.

The family of three soon resembled a family of four.

Many weekends found them at a park not far from home. Raven liked it because of its secluded, easily defendable perimeter. Irene liked it because of its quiet, unassuming solitude. Rogue liked parks. Emma... Emma liked being normal.

When she was normal, she thought about Winston less. Yes, Winston was Winston because he didn't deserve to be Daddy anymore. Raven, despite her scary blueness which she wasn't wearing now, resembled more of a real Daddy than Winston. She was strong, confident, a little detached, but above everything else, loving. So maybe she loved Rogue more as evidenced by the pair's frolicking on the jungle gym, but after all, everyone had their favorites.

Emma liked Irene better anyway.

"My, my, you look like you're thinking really hard."

"No," Emma replied to Irene's observation. Instead of elaborating, the girl kept on doing what she'd been doing for the past five minutes: sitting on the park bench and watching her feet kick back and forth.

Another parent might've urged her child to play, maybe even been reproachful for the sullen attitude. Irene wrapped an arm around Emma's shoulder and pulled her close yet somehow managing to be comfortingly distanced. Emma liked distance too because few people ever touched her in nice ways. She shuddered at the time Winston's driver put a hand under her shirt and-

_"Darn! Why can't ah ever tag Mama?!"_

The crystal clarity of Rogue's voice startled Emma into looking up. A muted buzz invaded the older girl's mind, the annoying white noise seemingly concealing... concealing... other voices?

_"Maybe I should take it easy on the squirt. She's starting to get mad."_

Raven? Emma's face flushed in mirth (from the comment) and confusion (from the voices so close and yet actual people so far away). Weird, odd, and-

_"Look at that nice piece of ass! Wonder how she'll scream when I bend her over the table and fuck her ass raw."_

A man's voice, this one deep and not nice. The crude words shocked her as she widened her eyes and scanned the park for the person saying these terrible things. Yet again, no one except for Irene in speaking distance.

_"-not suspecting anything. Good, good, he doesn't suspect I'm cheating on him."_

Her gaze found a couple ambling around the grass while they flirted and kissed away the day. In her heart of hearts, Emma knew those people were talking into her ear, but it made no sense. How could people far away be clear? How come the things they said didn't match their lips?

_"Whoa, hello there. What a foxy thing! Minus points for the kids and grandma hanging around her, but otherwise, not bad. Not bad at all. Bet she's all nice and loose after popping out those girls."_

The man continued talking, this time terrible things directed at Raven. Reflexively, Emma reached out for Irene. Why? Well, the man sounded an awful lot like Winston when he was in one of those moods. "Drunk off his ass," Adrienne used to mutter before she'd duck into her room. Winston would... would...

... would touch the maid. Hurt and touch Mama. Hit Christian which always made Emma hurt.

Cringing at the memories, Emma hugged Irene close while the tears rolled down her reddened cheeks. Anyone else would've been freaked out by the sudden turn from brooding kid to bawling baby, but never Irene. The woman returned the fierce hug while stroking that mane of long, brown hair.

From the direction of the jungle gym came, "Irene? What's the matter?"

"Oh darling, she's growing up before our very eyes." Gently, she tilted the girl's chin up and smiled, equal parts sadness and joy. _"Be proud, Emma. You're one of us now."

* * *

_

Through sheer determination, Emma wrestled with her telepathic powers, harnessing them by feeling out each facet one at a time. Many nights she sat alone in the den, curtains drawn and headphones on her ears. While she listened to the loud musings of Nirvana, Dinosaur Jr., and the Pixies, she channeled the thoughts away. She willed her broadening mind to shut up. She ordered the nosy part of her to keep to herself.

For all her life, she felt out of control and at the mercy of the world. Nothing obeyed her except herself, and she'd be damned if she'd let her mind fail her now. But fail her it did as it became exponentially more powerful than what she could deal with. Too proud to ask for help, too prideful to show how much this telepathy affected her, she forged ahead with her normal life.

She knew more than she wanted to know about her friends, teachers, and family. She found herself hating the world for being such a two faced, "Do as I say, not as I do" society. She couldn't sleep very long because she was afraid her soul would leave and travel to places with lots of people and lots of thinking.

Emma was afraid... afraid and proud.

And then, after months of this journey, Irene stepped in; after all, children had to learn their own lessons and find their own paths. The journeys tomorrow required strength and strength was something that couldn't be taught.

It had to be learned.

But Irene was also a mother. By no means was she a telepath, but being precognitive had its advantages. She led Emma through a variety of exercises, ones similar to those she used to tame her own raging visions. Irene spoke of using Emma's talents, if not for others like her, then at least to protect herself.

Protect tomorrow with today's sacrifice.

She opened up on the things Mystique did for the good of mutantkind. She enlightened Emma on the terrors lurking in the future, of a time when mutants would be ridiculed, imprisoned, persecuted, and killed like vermin. She talked about being ready, being ready to act on a moment's notice because destiny waited for no one. She impressed on the girl the importance of caring, of knowing that life, while unkind and unfair, also had its rewards.

She taught her to keep two words sacred: responsibility and sincerity.

By now old and wise enough to understand more adult things, Emma soaked up the older woman's teachings. A new world opened to the girl, one where she could make a difference, one which she could control if only she could control herself. Wouldn't be an exaggeration to say their relationship deepened, maybe even got over the hump of Emma's strange adoption.

Then one day, in the midst of an old Chinese meditation exercise Irene had taught her, everything snapped into focus. Like a person finally putting on those prescription glasses they'd been putting off wearing, Emma clearly sensed Raven's thoughts while she washed the dishes. She heard Rogue writing in her diary even though she was sure "hearing" and "writing" didn't exactly go hand in hand. She looked at Irene and sensed love beaming off of her like an all-consuming inferno.

Suddenly, this old woman who seemed like nothing more than a crutch looked different in this new light. Strands of past, present, and future shifted into Emma as she saw deeper and deeper, the curse of Irene's premonitions showing all its gory glory.

To know but not. To see glimpses of tomorrow like yesterday. To fight for change but realize each step brought more of the same. To be time's master and slave, time that never rested or repeated itself. To give up but see that by giving up, there wouldn't even be a chance to live. To live with that kind of burden for ages, and for what? For a pair children she didn't even give birth to...

"Irene," she squeaked, her throat closing in preparation for the sobs and emotions she wasn't used to.

"You have a unique gift, Emma. You can read minds, pierce into the soul, and if you so choose, change the very essence of a person. While others can only wish to walk in someone else's shoes, you live the experience every day. What you choose to do with your powers is up to you..."

"No," she rasped, "there are no choices, I saw it when I-"

"Destiny is fluid. Destiny is choice. Our ultimate destination will always be the same, but how we get there, that defines who we are." Irene enfolded the overwhelmed girl in her arms. In the blink of an eye, each connected on a level neither had ever broached, Emma's telepathy shedding light on Irene and Irene's precognitive abilities being fully understood by Emma.

The words left Emma's lips as if the most natural utterance ever known: "I love you, Mom."

* * *

Then high school came. 

The girls grew up. Rogue resembled a rough and tumble tomboy, shades of Raven running through her every act. Between glimmers of smiles, Irene would shake her head and say, "Such a rambunctious thing." Emma refined her Frost ways into a style all her own, one which sported an approachable sophistication blended with Irene's detached acumen. "What a hot little devil you are" Raven loved to purr, both to tease and praise the woman she helped raise. For the most part, those two were as normal as could be what with school, family time, friends, and typical growing pains. However, mutants and mutanthood integrated itself into the house, the overtone growing stronger as the years went on.

One unassuming day...

"The boy's bad news."

"Ah don't think so. You're just sayin' that cuz you jealous!"

Of all the off base, hurtful things to say, "Rogue, Cody's entire vocabulary consists of 'Dude,' 'Bitching,' and 'Funky.' The only thing he has going for him is football. He already has four girls on his arm and trust me, he doesn't need any more." Under her breath, Emma added, "Not like he can handle even one."

"Listen to Emma," smiled Mystique, ambling into the conversation. "No football playing boy is dating my daughter."

"But Mama!"

"See? Even Raven agrees with me."

"How do ah know if you ain't usin' those crazy mind games o' yours!"

The second the sentence came out, Rogue knew she'd stepped over the line. It's just... she was so mad! Why did Mama and Irene always side with Emma? What did they know about Cody? Cody was sweet and handsome and nice and dreamy and sexy. Sigh.

Meanwhile, Emma glared at her swooning sister, held back the colorful tirade in her throat, and stomped into the living room. If Rogue wanted to ride off into the sunset with an idiot, fine. Little sister was all grown up now and big sister couldn't tell her how to live. Besides, high school was time to make mistakes and Cody Robbins, star quarterback of the varsity team, rated a "Ginormous" on the mistakes scale. After all, this was the same idiot who knocked up Jill Meeks (head cheerleader, of course), smoked dope in the teacher's parking lot (and got caught), and crashed his into a tree after getting drunk and nearly blinded by some self-brewed liquor containing rubbing alcohol.

The roar of an old, beat-up junker rumbled past the windows and into her ears. Against her better judgment, she peeled back the blinds to confirm her suspicions: one Oldsmobile, no bumpers, dented hood, and smoke screen exhaust meant her sister's Prince Charming had arrived. Two blaring honks of his horn sent Rogue dashing into the passenger seat.

Vroom, vroom, squeal of tires, then gone.

Good riddance.

Stupid Anna-Marie "Rogue" Darkholme, running her mouth about stupid football players and "crazy mind games" she had no business talking about. Like she had any powers to begin with! Like she had any idea how hard keeping to herself was when the entire world broadcasted their thoughts! To mitigate her fuming, Emma shuffled to the kitchen in search of ice-cream. Ice-cream, a sappy movie, and a comfortable blanket would calm her down.

"You shouldn't take what she says to heart."

Irene's unexpected voice startled Emma and caused her to thump her head against the freezer. She emerged from the chill chest with a tub of rocky road, a good sized bruise, and a scowl Raven would be proud of.

"Mom, seriously bad timing." Blinking to clear away the stars, Emma fished around the drawer to find a suitably large spoon. "And I'm not taking anything to heart because I don't care."

"Now, now, child, don't pout. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not pouting," pouted Emma as she dug into the rocky road. "Come to think about it, I want Rogue to go out with Cody. I want her to know how much of a slimeball he is so when she comes crying home, I can say I told her so."

The sappy movie beckoned her, but as she tried to exit the kitchen, Irene blocked her way. "What did I teach you responsibility and sincerity?"

Huh? Responsibility? Sincerity? Why the sudden, serious question? Hesitantly, Emma replied, "I should say and do what I feel?"

"Do you feel Cody is going to hurt Rogue?"

"Feel?" Emma laughed dryly. "I know."

"Then why didn't you stop your sister?"

"Because that stubborn girl has to make her own mistakes to learn. I did."

An enigmatic smile replaced the stern look as Irene stepped aside. "I'm glad someone in this house listens to me."

"Everyone listens to you, Mom. Raven and Rogue just don't admit it."

Of course everyone listened to Irene: the woman was precognitive for God's sake! How could a person with a direct line to the future be wrong? You'd have to be foolish not to look into every word she said because the future practically flowed from her like a fountain.

The thought seized Emma and wouldn't let go. "Mom?"

"Yes dear?"

"Did you have a vision?"

"I have visions about many things."

Restraining herself from cussing, the teen pressed, "About Cody and Rogue. Who else?!"

The ever-present, slightly frowning Mystique chose the moment to pop into the kitchen. "What's this about that boy and my daughter?"

"Mom," urged Emma, "What did you see?"

Calm and unmoved, Irene tilted her head as if to peer at her lover and daughter with faint curiosity. "Didn't you want Rogue to learn a lesson?"

The question sent both into action. Spoon clanked against the floor while ice-cream found itself side down on the counter. Emma tore out of the kitchen at almost inhuman speeds, the only sounds of her passing the jingle of car keys as she snagged them from their place hanging on the wall. Were it not for Irene's iron grip on her arm, Mystique would've followed Emma. Instead, the door to the garage closed and all she could do was stare at the hand holding her in place.

"Let her go, Raven. She needs to see Rogue's powers for herself."

"But Rogue hasn't... hasn't..." A light bulb went off in Mystique's mind. "No," she hissed, eyes wide and jaw clenched, "her powers are going to manifest tonight? Are you insane? We can't leave her alone, not like this!"

"You knew this day would come."

"A warning would've been nice!"

Irene's grip softened into a caress. Sadly, she said, "I won't always be watching the threads of destiny for you. My end is just over the horizon, and when that time comes, I want to know my family is prepared." The caressing hand went from arm to cheek. "I want to know you are prepared, my darling Raven."

"You always say your time is coming but you're still here. Irene, I won't let you die."

"It's not our choice."

"No, it's YOUR choice! You know what's going to happen and you refuse to stop it!"

"There are few who can write their own endings. I've lived a charmed and wonderful life which no one can fault. Even though I want to live forever with you, my body won't allow it. I'm old, darling, while you look, feel, and act as young as the day I met you. My last gift is to make my passing easier for you and our daughters."

Mystique's shoulders sagged an almost imperceptible bit: even she knew better than to argue with a determined Irene. While every fiber in her transmutable body wanted to hash out this debacle over and over till her love changed her mind, she held herself back and broached the subject from a different angle.

"So how exactly is leaving Rogue alone tonight accomplishing anything?"

"Emma needs to bond with her."

"Bond?" The metamorph's brow raised to accommodate her scrutiny. "They're sisters-"

"Adoptive sisters," clarified Irene. "No matter how much we want otherwise, Rogue is your little girl and Emma is mine. They love each other out of obligation, the barriers of us and their unrelatedness keeping them apart. Tonight, that is going to change. It has to change because when we send Rogue away, Emma will be her only protector."

Sending Rogue away... the thought made her flinch. "We don't have to."

"Yes, we do. Neither of us know enough to control her powers much less teach her how to use them without great harm to herself. Charles Xavier may not be your favorite man-"

Mystique snorted. "That's an understatement..."

"- but his knowledge and resources are second to none. He will help Rogue."

"He's not going to take her."

"He will if she goes to him herself. We need to... convince her."

Convince, a transparent codeword for force and manipulate. That's what hurt the most about this plan, that's what made Raven's heart bleed at the very mention of letting Rogue go--the charade, the pretending to be uncaring, distant, and cold so their child would not come back. It smacked of trouble and lost opportunities, perhaps even going into bad parenthood... something a certain Winston Frost would've done.

"And Emma?"

"Emma doesn't need anyone's help," Irene said glowingly. "Given enough time and opportunity, she might even become a stronger telepath than Xavier. No, Emma's role is much like yours, Raven, a fulcrum of the future. She is a star which others follow, a rare breed whom fate bows to. I've done my best to guide the two of you in a direction I hope you'll approve."

"What direction? I need something to make me less of a nervous wreck than I already am."

As their conversation degenerated into sad mutterings, the women found themselves in a familiar place: each other's arms. Raven--for all her toughened attitude and sly hijinks--felt uncertainty and fear. The children they'd raised were all grown up and too big for this small house. They had their own fortunes to carve, their own troubles to solve, but instead of supporting them, Irene wanted her to push them away, to have them fly on their own young wings.

All which would've been fine with Raven if they weren't flying into the X-Men's den. For the past few years (and under Irene's prompting), she'd been making inroads with Magneto, currying his favor with vital information and accomplished tasks. Her alliance brought her into direct conflict with the people who would be surrounding her daughters. Curiouser and curiouser, but despite the curiosity, Irene never steered her wrong. The present might've been hard but the future always worked out for the best.

And yet the future didn't include Irene, a fact Raven failed to accept.

"Irene, what am I going to do without you?"

"Live. That's all I want from you, for you to live and be happy when I'm gone."

Live and be happy. "How can I do that when my wife and daughters aren't here anymore?"

Mysteriously, Irene kissed her on the lips and murmured, "Love will find you again."

* * *

The nightmares only got worse. 

Cody lingered, his body laying at Mercy Hospital but his mind ingrained in hers. He'd come to her, call her a freak and scream for his life back. Sometimes, he'd get violent, and in the morning, she'd wake with bruises all over her. Still though, this wasn't too bad because Rogue knew how to defend herself: Emma tirelessly worked with her on that, the mind shields. The worst times was when she'd find him crying, asking about his parents, wondering about his college scholarships, and wanting to die so he could get out of this mental prison.

The days ended up as bad as the nights.

Every moment found Rogue a paranoid mess. She dared not touch others for fear of absorbing, heaven forbid, her family. Her clothes grew long and concealing despite the summer heat. Her strange behavior ruined many friendships and destroyed her normal life. Emma offered to brainwash those insensitive cronies at school into never making fun of her again, but Rogue didn't want that. She didn't need fickle assholes to be her friends. Her outlook on the world dimmed, a life formerly bright with opportunity now empty and hollow. Eventually, she stopped going to school and stayed in her room.

She found little comfort at home.

Mama and Irene seemed enamored with her new powers. They wanted her to use them and trained her like they trained Emma... only Emma liked her powers. Rogue hated hers but Mama wouldn't shut up about it. That and she found out Mama's work wasn't nice or legal.

"Come with me, I'll show you the ropes to espionage."

"I could use a hand. It'll be easy if you just absorb their memories and tell me what I need to know. Torture takes too long."

"Go on, you don't have to be afraid of the flatscans."

"Excellent! So you can absorb mutant powers too, huh?"

In fact, Mama's work seemed downright cruel and Rogue didn't have a stomach for it. She didn't understand. No one understood except for Emma, Emma who found Rogue on that terrible day when she took Cody's mind, Emma who tried her best to keep the memories away, Emma who quieted the demons in her head after another one of Mama's "missions" fighting the X-Men or stealing something from the government.

Neither of them understood why their parents acted this way. Felt like ever since their abilities blossomed, all Irene and Raven wanted from them was... was... their abilities.

Rogue cried about this many times, and each time, only Emma came to listen. The two even worked their way about Rogue's nasty mutation by wrapping the younger girl in a thin blanket before they hugged and vented and lamented. A small comfort in an increasingly uncomfortable place, so different from mere months ago.

One night, Rogue heard her parents and sister arguing.

"It's like I don't even know the two of you!"

"We're teaching Rogue how to-"

"No, Mom never did any of that with me! She never forced me to brainwash cops or shut off their minds! Raven, why are you forcing Rogue to do these terrible things to people? She. Doesn't. Want. To. Use. Her. Powers. You have no idea how much she's hurting inside!"

"Emma, if she doesn't learn how to deal with herself now, she'll have a lifetime of regret."

"Mom, I can't believe you're going along with this insanity! There's a difference between using and teaching, and both of you are using her!"

"What did I teach you about responsibility and sincerity?"

"Great, not this garbage again. You tell me you have a responsibility to help us, that you're putting us through this for our own good. Bullshit!"

"Don't use that language around your mother!"

"Fuck you, Raven! I won't let either of you hurt Rogue again!"

The house remained silent after the outburst. Emma stalked off to her room and slammed the door shut. Rogue cried herself to sleep, now very aware how Emma must've felt before Mama and Irene took her in all those years ago.

The last straw came a week later: San Francisco, the Brotherhood, Carol Danvers. Mystique brought Rogue along--without Emma's knowledge--to help spring the captured members of the Brotherhood. Currently, they were being held at the U.S. Naval Station in Treasure Island while guarded by the army, the navy, the national guard, and the Avengers. Well, at least one member of the Avengers, Ms. Marvel or Carol Danvers.

To get the access codes for the base, Mystique forced Rogue to absorb a host of individuals. The young girl's mind filled with various voices, each soft but together so loud her brain seemed ready to ooze out of her ears. Despite the numbing pain, Mystique nudged her on until they freed Avalanche, Blob, and Pyro.

Being not the brightest villains in the world, the destructive trio decided to thank their captors for the hospitality. Scary thing was, they would've demolished the base had Ms. Marvel not been there.

Moving like a flash of lightning and striking just as quick, she fought with reckless abandon and stout bravery. Avalanche couldn't get a shot at her; Pyro couldn't reach her when she soared into the sky; even the Blob couldn't hurt her when he landed a blow. For a moment, Rogue watched in awe at the superheroine's display, the voices very quiet as they themselves vicariously experienced the thrill of fight and flight.

"Get up," hissed Mystique, dragging her daughter to her feet, "we're not waiting for those fools to finish their fun."

Suddenly, "Sir, I found two more!"

Machinegun fire rattled around them forcing the woman to push Rogue toward cover and she herself dive out of the way in the opposite direction. The corner of a wooden cart caught Rogue's arm tearing through fabric and skin. Desperately, she jerked her arm away, hoping and praying her sleeve wasn't caught.

The entire sleeve from the shoulder on down ripped away.

Seeing Mystique pinned down, Pyro spun a jet of flames into the servicemen. The guns stopped but the crates surrounding Rogue erupted into a conflagration, trapping her.

"Mama?"

She couldn't pierce through the noise. Too much noise--fires, fights, destruction--drowned her out.

"Mama!"

Rising from the crates came black, suffocating smoke. Heat assaulted her from every direction and air burned into short supply.

"MAMA!"

A hand appeared through the fire. A hand then an entire body moving so fast Rogue didn't have a chance say "O'er here!" One moment she seemed destined to die, the next, she found herself in the sky, her head on a shoulder, a strong arm around her waist, and going further away from her doom.

"Are you ok?"

Ms. Marvel saved her. Ms. Marvel, Mama's enemy, saved her. She tried to say something, but as she moved to look her savior in the eye, their cheeks brushed. Slight, slight enough for Rogue's power to trigger, momentarily stunning... stunning... stunning Carol.

The heroine wrenched away. "What was-"

"Shit! The bitch has L'il Bit!"

L'il Bit. That's what Avalanche called Rogue. The term of endearment made Carol gasp.

"You're one of them."

A huge slab of concrete which had no business ever being airborne leapt from the Blob's meaty hands and cracked the back of Carol's skull. In turn, Carol's head knocked into Rogue's causing quite a string of events. First off, both women lost consciousness from their respective blows. Second, the forehead to forehead hit, coupled by Rogue's bloody, exposed arm hooked around an area not covered by Carol's costume, activated Rogue's powers. Third, they fell about eighty feet.

Honestly, Rogue didn't even remember the impact, but the way Pyro told it, Carol landed on top of her. Lacerations and broken bones littered the girl's body, enough to convince a near hysterical Mystique that her daughter was dead.

Only she wasn't.

Ms. Marvel--her powers were strange, not of this world. They resisted being absorbed at first, but luckily, some of them passed to Rogue, enough for her to survive the fall. Acting on a hunch, Mystique ordered the Brotherhood to stay behind until Rogue could completely drain those awesome powers. When the criminals left Treasure Island, they dumped the empty husk of Carol Danvers out the helicopter, chortles of pleasure and glee coming from them as they watched her body plunge into the freezing San Francisco bay. On the plus side, Rogue recovered and inherited untold strength and unbelievable invulnerability. On the minus side, Carol Danvers wasn't dead... in body or in spirit.

Emma had seen enough.

"They can't do this to us."

Another night, another one of the bleach blonde's tirades. Rogue wrapped the blanket around herself and leaned further into her sister's embrace.

"I won't let them."

The brunette shuddered, partially at the cold, partially at Ms. Marvel's ghost hiding in her mind, partially at Emma's words.

"Mystique could've killed you."

Mama. She still remembered calling for Mama but Carol came instead.

"Rogue, if I leave, will you come with me?"

"Leave? Where ya goin' ta go?"

"The X-Men," whispered Emma. "Mystique can't hurt us there. Who knows? They might be able to help you, get your powers under control."

"But... but they ain't gonna trust us."

"They will if we join them."

* * *

And join the X-Men they did. Few approved their plea for sanctuary, but Xavier, the only person who's opinion mattered in the mansion, begged to differ. First and foremost, he built his dream on compassion. What kind of institution would he be leading if he turned away members of his own race? Second, and in Emma's mind more important, were their powers. An alpha level telepath and an iron woman able to steal others' abilities: what more could he ask for in recruits? He needed someone to replace Jean and another to fill in the void of Logan's absence. 

In time, Rogue grew fond of the mansion. She found a connection with Ororo, and from there, she befriended stalwart X-Men like Kitty and Kurt. In Kurt's case, the family connection bonded them close, another commonality giving them another excuse to be friends. She earned Logan's respect in Japan by thwacking Lady Viper in the face and taking a bullet meant for him. Scott came and went, the odyssey of a new wife and child separating him from The Dream. The Professor was proud of her, always referring to "a certain Southern dame" when bringing up examples on why no mutant's plight should be ignored by the X-Men. Though he never quite got a hold of her powers, he did lessen the associated trauma and multiple personalities running about in her head, a grand achievement in and of itself.

Emma fared worse. Her strong personality clashed with Ororo's, the two women almost always disagreeing on one matter or another. She intimidated Kitty, what with that sure, sultry stride and all-knowing smile. Kitty's uneasiness in turn set off Kurt, Logan, and Peter, all three of whom felt themselves her guardian angels. Not surprisingly, Kurt never warmed up to Emma, familial connection be damned. Strangely though, she rather liked Scott if only for his easily embarrassed demeanor and attractive body. Too bad she liked his wife, Madelyne "Just Call Me Maddie" Pryor, a whole lot more. The Professor cast unsure glances at her all the time, impressed by her potential but put off by her abrasive mind-set and protectiveness of Rogue. Maybe that same potential worried him because sometimes, if he concentrated really hard, he could feel her patience fraying like a well-used rope, tethering on that same edge Magneto used to until he snapped.

Still, X-Men were X-Men, beloved or not. The sisters stood by the team during the confrontation with the Morlocks' killers. When the Hellfire Club struck, Emma was there to stop Sebastian in his tracks and Rogue took the daunting task of holding off Selene. Neither sibling flinched when they were entangled in the intergalactic affairs of Shi'ar and Kree. Charles left the X-teams to Magneto, a colossal mistake in hindsight and one which Emma protested to no ends.

They survived massacres and infernos.

They became mentors to younger mutants.

The X-Men's roster changed but they remained constants.

Constant. Constant like the hurt in their hearts whenever they faced off with Mystique, whether she be heading up the Brotherhood or Freedom Force (really, one in the same). Despite the acrimonious departure, they remembered when their parents loved them. Alone at night, Rogue wished for her powers to go away so Mystique would be Mama once again. Across the hall and unbeknownst to her, Emma would think the same things, wondering when and where her happiness went awry. Deep in her soul, she wanted to think Mom and Mystique still loved her, still respected her, still worried about her. However, neither ever voiced their secrets, Emma too stubborn to return to the past and Rogue too much like Emma to even consider asking.

Then the business with Reavers, Forge, Adversary, Siege Perilous, and Roma happened.

A little afterwards, Irene died.

* * *

It was a sunny autumn morning, bright but crisply cold. A light breeze swayed blades of grass while disturbing birds from their perches. The cemetery remained quiet this weekday, the grounds crew not quite ready to go to work yet and visitors having other places to be. Among the graves and mausoleums walked Emma Grace Frost, sunglasses shielding her eyes and a baggy NYU sweater shrouding her body. She walked with a purpose, sticking to the less traversed areas and slipping behind cover when available. 

Never could be too careful... especially when the whole world saw you "die" on national TV.

Around a thick coppice of bushes and trees she went, finally ending up in what had to be the cemetery's most secluded resting place. Here, away from the noisy road and shut out from prying eyes, a person could be at peace. One would think prime real estate like this would've been reserved for the wealthy, and indeed if Emma hadn't known the names on the three headstones, she would've made the assumption.

But no, she knew the names: Anna-Marie Darkholme, Emma Grace Frost, and Irene Adler.

Reading the epitaphs felt like twisting the proverbial knife in her chest.

"Our little Rogue, the light of our lives."

"Our Emma, one who knew no boundaries."

"Our Destiny, to love like she did."

Emma kneeled in front of Irene's grave. "Mom," she greeted then faltered. She had so much to say, every word planned out, but now that she was here, she couldn't say them. She couldn't give Irene her apologies or tell her about Rogue. She couldn't do anything except cry.

Cry for all the nights spent wondering. Cry for her own foolish pride. Cry for leaving home. Cry for saying hurtful things to Mystique while they fought. Cry for opportunities missed and a life not well lived. Cry for not saying "I love you" more often. Most importantly, cry for a broken family.

Her tearful eyes looked to both sides of Irene and concluded one thing: Raven cared. Somehow, despite the pushing and needling and supposed apathy, Raven cared about them. Those few words etched on emotionless stone shattered Emma's ill will and robbed her voice.

She hurt not just for herself but also for the women who raised her.

"Oh my God..."

Raven's voice chilled Emma to the bone. Telepath turned to meet metamorph, every sound around ceasing and every move stilling. In Raven's hands, a bouquet of flowers. In her eyes, a progression from shock to disbelief to anger.

The flowers found themselves flung to the ground as its owner lunged at this thing wearing her child's face. By the time Emma recovered from her surprise, Raven sat atop of her with a knife pressed across her neck.

"I swear, Vanessa, if you don't stop this joke now, I'll make you choke on your own heart."

Vanessa? Who the hell was Vanessa? No, wait, Vanessa Carlysle, better known as Copycat. The Professor tried to recruit her once but failed. Guess not all mutants with useful powers showed up at his door begging for sanctuary, huh?

To prove herself, Emma delved into Mystique's mind and telepathically forced her to get up. Such an easy task against a barely shielded mind ranked somewhere below routine for Emma--second nature at worst, a part of her at best. Should be important to note here that while Emma had few scruples when using her powers, she never peeked in on someone's memories unless need be. Long ago she'd learned the hard way that looking at too much into an untrained person's psyche could give her all sorts of unpleasantness like headaches, hallucinations, and split personalities. Always, always, always Emma kept a mental shield around herself, first to fend off everyone's projecting thoughts and second to protect herself when the situation called for her to get down and dirty with the uninitiated.

Her shield provided her a way to surgically strike at her victims, the preferred method for any telepath worth their salt to attack.

Then how come stray thoughts clung onto her like balls of lint? How come when she pulled out of Raven's mind, memories followed? How come her shields failed her?

Fragile state of mind perhaps? After all, Raven was stricken by grief, guilt, and loss so her mind wasn't pristine. However it happened, it happened. In the instant between Raven standing and Emma checking her throat for a cut, images from the past--their past--materialized behind Emma's eyes, disjointed, out of sequence, and raw.

_All which would've been fine with Raven if they weren't flying into the X-Men's den. For the past few years (and under Irene's prompting), she'd been making inroads with Magneto, currying his favor with vital information and accomplished tasks. Her alliance brought her into direct conflict with the people who would be surrounding her daughters. Curiouser and curiouser, but despite the curiosity, Irene never steered her wrong..._

_"... They love each other out of obligation, the barriers of us and their unrelatedness keeping them apart. Tonight, that is going to change. It has to change because when we send Rogue away, Emma will be..."_

_... translated into another child, another mouth to feed, another person to love, another life to look after. She and Irene already had their hands full with Rogue, but the child raising experience, for all its trials, fulfilled something in both women and made them whole. They'd loved and lived for ages, but only when they loved and lived for another did they find true happiness._

_Sending Rogue away... the thought made her flinch. "We don't have to."_

_"Yes, we do. Neither of us know enough to control her powers much less teach her how to use them without great harm to herself. Charles Xavier may not be your favorite man-"_

_Mystique snorted. "That's an understatement..."_

_"- but his knowledge and resources are second to none. He will help Rogue."_

_"He's not going to take her."_

_"He will if she goes to him herself. We need to... convince her."_

_Another one wouldn't be so bad._

_That and Mystique had a soft spot for children, especially those helpless against their unloving parents..._

_Home wasn't safe but it was the only home she knew._

_"Irene, are you listening to me? T..."_

_Why did she have to accept Emma as a big sister? Why did her mama want another child? With patience few knew she had, Raven explained how some unlucky girls had bad parents._

_"She doesn't belong here."_

_Little girls weren't meant to be traumatized or taken away from their parents. Little girls were suppose to be lights of the world, not hapless victims. This house had two little girls, but Rogue differed from Emma. Rogue literally had nowhere to go; Rogue was young. Mystique's own abnormalities proved easy to swallow for an impressionable child. Emma... Emma was too mature. Emma would have a hard time thinking of these strange people as family. She held onto her own family as a good little girl should and needed to go home._

_Bad parents came in many different forms, but the bottom line was unhappiness. Bad parents didn't make their daughters feel good about themselves; bad parents had no time for their children. _

_Emma was one of those unlucky girls._

_"Mama, wut can we do ta help?"_

_"Be nice to her. Share. Love. It's all she needs."_

_... girl screamed "monster." She either didn't know any better or she knew too well--Mystique couldn't decide on either... _

_... children they'd raised were all grown up and too big for this small house. They had their own fortunes to carve, their own troubles to solve, but instead of supporting them, Irene wanted her to push them away, to have them fly on their own young wings._

_"... what am I going to do without you?"_

_"Live. That's all I want from you, for you to live and be happy when I'm gone."_

_Live and be happy. "How can I do that when my wife and daughters aren't here anymore?"_

_Mysteriously, Irene kissed her on the lips and murmured, "Love will find you again."_

The visions left Emma breathless. Her heart raced, reddening her cheeks and pounding against her chest like a prison.

"I'm dreaming," squeaked her broken voice, choked up on the emotional overload. "I'm dreaming."

I'm dreaming. Say it enough and it'll come true. I'm dreaming. Things like this only happened in comic books and movies, not real life. I'm dreaming. Parents didn't play these desperate games with their children. Emma convinced herself she'd wake up and find out this entire scene was cooked up by Roma or some Reaver with extraordinary powers. Maybe she'd be back in the Australian outback or somewhere in Dallas surround by muttering reporters or lying comfortably in her bed in Westchester.

Anywhere but here, and not because she wanted it but because life delighted in screwing her.

Comforting arms slid under her, lifting her up. A shaking hand removed her sunglasses. Mystique in all her blueness loomed above as yellow eyes glowed against the cloudless sky like stars in the day. Without a word spoken or thought, they clutched each other tight, years of burdens, hurt, and wondering removed... for the moment at least.

Mystique took the lull to ask, "Is Rogue ok?"

"She's fine," Emma replied, a jab of jealousy piercing her heart. "All of us are fine." Raven always cared about Rogue more despite claiming to not have favorites. Rogue this, Rogue that. "A friend helped us out and now we're lying low, finishing up some loose ends."

No, she had to calm herself. Rogue was Raven's, pure and simple. Emma herself was Irene's and that was enough. Again, say it enough and it'll come true.

Tensed muscles relaxed at the news. "I thought I lost you. All of you."

"And you didn't think you lost us when we ran away?"

"We had no choice," Raven bristled. "Rogue needed someone to help her with her powers. We... I... I didn't know enough to do anything but watch her suffer."

Rogue this, Rogue that, it was always Rogue. "Well, what about me? You and Mom didn't have to make me suffer too."

"We wanted you to protect her!"

Emma's eyes went dead and dull. "You used me."

"I-"

"Don't," the blonde interrupted, realization igniting her fury. "You used me like a tool. How could Mom do that to me, Raven? Why did you have to manipulate me?"

For not the first time today, Mystique wished Irene was still alive. She'd know what to do, what to say, how to make this train wreck of a reunion all better. As the situation stood, "I don't know."

The girl--No, the woman--tore herself from those cradling arms and flailed to her feet. Her countenance twisted into a horrible mask of wrath, reproving and pained. "How could you not know? Mom knew everything and she didn't stop it! Why? Goddamnit Raven, I thought she loved me!"

"You think this was easy for us? You think we wanted you out of our sights for more than a minute?"

"I'm not talking about you," spat Emma. "You care about Rogue more than me. I was a fucking accessory to you, the other girl you had to feel for because Irene wanted you to. Don't go saying 'we' like you speak for her too. I don't want to know why you went along with it because I know why already: Rogue! I want to know why Irene took her love away from me because... because..."

Emma's shoulders slumped and her voice got small like a child's. "... because she's Mom and I love her. Why wasn't I good enough? Why didn't she love enough to tell me? If she wanted me to protect Rogue, all she had to do was ask."

"We loved you, Em-"

"Don't say 'we' again. I want to know about Irene!"

Not known for her patience, Raven's temper reared its head, outraged at the casual dismissal and demand. "I speak for Irene when I say 'we.' I've loved her longer than you've been alive, so don't question me when it comes to her."

"Then why did she force me away?"

"I told you: I don't fucking know!"

"Liar! She told you everything! If you won't tell me..."

A lower tone, a menacing glare, a tightening of those fists--that sounded like a threat. Mystique narrowed her gaze. "What if I have nothing to tell you?"

"I'll have to find out myself."

As fast as she could move, as sharp as her reflexes were, even she couldn't slip Emma's telepathy. Like a light being turned off, Mystique found herself unable to dive, tackle, slap, scream, or even sneer. Between the layers of disbelief and displeasure, fearful inklings snuck past her defenses and beaded off her like sweat. This couldn't be happening, not in front of Irene, not by the hand of her daughter.

No, she'd been in this position before, but this time and this time only, a distinct sense of violation crept up her spine. This time and this time only did she really care about the secrets she hid.

"Rogue and I have cried too many tears over you. I've spent too many nights wishing for answers. You can't fool me, Raven: you're hiding something. I can see you straining, feel you covering up your tracks in your mind. You know," spat Emma, vile rage settling in her and festering. "You know! After this, I'll know too!"

Mystique's world exploded into a cornucopia of colors, tactile stimulations, and unfiltered agony. A terrible stabbing along the lines of a migraine made her lose track of... of... everything. She didn't know up from down, right from wrong, or happiness from sadness. Her brain wanted to burst while another presence hammered at her skull to split it open. Thoughts leaked out, carried away despite strands of her holding on tenuously. She tried to rein them in but they fled from her like terrified children.

Like her children.

_"You hated me."_

Emma's accusing voice sounded so loud and deafening, so commanding and searing. Weakly, Raven shook her head to revolt against the condemnation.

_"You never wanted me."_

Another turn of the screws and the pain became too much. Against Raven's will, the meager mental shields she had fell apart like rusted gates. For a split second, she felt a great calm pass over her, the kind which always preceded a coming storm.

Then, chaos.

Her entire life spilled from her. Every memory, every moment, every hurt, every triumph, every love, every decision, every deception, every thing she ever remembered (and even some she didn't) in her long, long life turned into a deluge of disorganized psychic energy.

A normal telepath caught in the wake of this enormous outpouring would've been consumed by its sheer volume, lost amongst the debris and never to wake. An experienced telepath would've gotten the hell out of here, trouble caused, deed done, and no need to pick up the pieces. Emma Grace Frost--neither mere normal nor simply experienced--walked through the carnage like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Her golden blonde hair simmered against the disjointedness. Her eyes burrowed holes into the astral plane. She cast aside every memory that didn't have herself or Irene, sifting as a cat burglar would to find hidden treasures.

The Brotherhood.

Childhood.

Motherhood.

Growing up.

Growing old.

Without powers.

With powers.

As a man.

As a woman.

As something else.

Wounded.

Healed.

Leaving.

Fighting.

Loving.

Crying.

Living.

Finally, wanting. Wanting to die.

All because of a woman named Destiny and two children she didn't give birth to.

At last, Emma stood before a spent Raven. The metamorph, in the physical world so cocky and imposing, lay here face down in the astral plane, her psyche so frail and doomed. Still, beneath her broken self-image she held something close, something she wouldn't let go, something her mind sealed so tight that her soul refused to bare it.

Emma knelt down and tilted her adopted parent's chin up. _"It's over, Raven. No more secrets."_

Defiant till the end, Raven shrunk away and curled up into herself.

Spurred by her adoption and emotional inadequacies, Emma turned Raven over, saw a clenched fist holding onto one last memory, and wretched it away. Emma expected to see Irene talking about the mysteries of her visions, explaining passages of her diaries, and perhaps even guiding Raven's hand in hurting Rogue. Instead, the blonde saw...

Lust. Shock. Embarrassment. Anger. Guilt. Self-loathing. All in that order.

A memory raised to the surface: a winter night, nondescript, smells of food radiating from the kitchen. Emma watched from behind Raven's eyes as the metamorph sauntered down the hall. She passed by Rogue's door and went for Emma's, intent on letting the girl know that dinner was about to be served. Seeing the door opened just a crack, she silently pushed it open, stuck her head in, and caught Emma naked, back turned to the door, and examining her growing breasts in front of her full length mirror.

Emma, who'd hit the peek of puberty and recently gotten a hold of her powers, Emma, the little girl who wasn't so little anymore, Emma, now becoming a real woman

A lustful spark lit Raven's very core, the view of soft, alabaster skin, wide hips, reddish hued nipples, and pouty lips dampening her sex. The thought was so quick, so primal, and so uncontrolled that it scared her. Before she could be discovered, she removed herself from the room, her heart pounding and her breaths short.

Emma was gorgeous. Emma was a goddess. Emma was her daughter! Lust died into shock. Raven hit her head against the wall, a dim hope to drive out the visage of that body burned into her retinas. No, this couldn't do. This was infidelity and incest, something redneck hicks and village bumpkins took part in.

What kind of parent was she? Shock evolved into embarrassment. Her face burned red against her blue skin, burned just like her soul would if she continued entertaining these thoughts. Her entire family would be devastated, most of all Irene, the woman Raven swore to love and remain faithful to... if not in body, then at least in heart.

Irene. Embarrassment turned to anger now, run hot by disgust. Idiot! Slut! Demon! Shit, Emma was telepathic too. Mustn't let this slip, mustn't let anyone know. Bury it deep and never let anyone see.

Raven made a solemn promise to herself: keep Emma at a safe distance. No more hugs, minimum teasing, and don't try to love--be kind because kind was civil, but only kind, never anything else. She loved her family too much to take advantage of beautiful, porcelain featured Emma. No more Emma! From this day forth, Emma stayed at arm's length.

The memory disappeared.

The astral plane fizzled away.

The two women stood before three graves, only one truly occupied. Emma collapsed to her knees while Raven fell into a boneless heap. The blonde gaped like a fish out of water, thoughts forming but none reaching her mouth. Raven... Raven didn't hate her. In fact, if nothing else, Raven could be accused of loving her too much, too much like a lover and not like a daughter. No wonder the mischievous metamorph became colder and got that much closer to Rogue.

No wonder, yet Emma couldn't help but wonder.

Bleary and confused, Raven lifted her face off the grass and met Emma's empty stare. They watched each other as revelations changed their relationship yet again. Years ago, before mutations and X-Men touched them, they were family. Through Irene's urgings, they became adversaries. Now, they didn't know what they were anymore.

Slowly, they turned to Irene's memorial, both expecting to hear wise words or subtle guidance from the woman they loved in their own ways. The words etched across the green marble assumed a new meaning.

"Our Destiny, to love like she did."

* * *

- The next tale awaits... 


End file.
